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Edited by #. K. A. BELL 








Others in preparation 






G. K. A. BELL, B.A. (OxoN.) 






Methinks 1 see in ray mind a noble and puissant Nation 
rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking 
her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an Eagle muing 
her mighty youth, and kindling her undazl'd eyes at the full 
midday learn, purging and unsealing her long abused sight 
at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance, while the whole 
noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that 
love the twilight, flutter about, amazd at what she means, 
and in their envious gabble would prognosticat a year of 

sects and schisms. 



THIS volume presents a choice of the best patriotic 
poetry in the English language. It does not profess to 
be complete fortunately there are too many good 
poems for that but it aims at giving a fair and repre- 
sentative selection. At any rate, it is hoped that 
nothing has been included which is trivial or absurd. 
In order to secure this representative character it has 
been thought right to give a few poems where the 
patriotic feeling, within the bounds of the United King- 
dom, is directed against England itself, for example, or 
Scotland, and also to record now and again even ' the 
deed of an alien legion,' when that deed is associated, 
however slightly, with the British name. The omission 
of some poems such as the Ballads of Lord Tennyson 
and the failure to include more than one poem by 
Rudyard Kipling is due to copyright restrictions, and 
has been a matter for the editor's keenest regret. 

The Muse of Patriotism is famously capricious. She 
is the cause of much good and very much bad verse. 
Occasionally she ascends 'the brightest heaven of in- 
vention,' but more often men use her ample wing, not 
to bear them on such lofty flights, but for shelter to 
their very earthy offspring. The common products of 
the lighter stage bear witness to the amount of absurd 
doggerel which she inspires, or at least allows, while, 


on the other hand, we owe some of the finest ballads in 
the language to her prosperous aid. The contrast is 
sufficiently striking, but probably we may go further 
and say that not only is more bad verse tolerated in 
the name of patriotism than on any other pretext, but 
also that the fine results, when compared with those 
achieved under other influences, are remarkably rare. 
There is no wish to deny the very existence of great 
patriotic poems : this anthology and the famous names 
which it recalls will surely prove that. But those 
great poems are amazingly few, if we think of the large 
amount of really great verse made in honour of Love, 
for instance, or Nature. What is the reason ? A man's 
love for his country must have been one of the earliest 
impelling motives to poetry is it superseded ? Are 
the English * ill at these numbers, 3 because they are, as 
a nation, unpatriotic ? The answer is yes and no. 
Englishmen are patriotic, but their patriotism is less a 
love for their country in the abstract than a specialized 
enthusiasm for eminent persons in it. The English are 
almost unable to personify : very few of them can look 
on their country as a splendidly magnetic individual, 
very few can ' feel for her as a lover or a child.' In 
the same way, great causes isolated from their pro- 
moters will never move them ; but meet the personal 
demand, identify the cause with the cause's representa- 
tive and the attractive power is enormous. The person 
absolutely transfigures the cause. ' Produce great men,' 
it has been said, 'the rest follows.' So the country must 
live in its great men : men's imaginations must be fired, 
their hearts must be touched by an appeal to heroic ex- 
amples and personal enterprises, and not in war alone. 


Surely it is true that if ever wars were to be directed 
mainly by mechanical means, if ever the conspicuous 
power in action should be not a man but a machine, 
very soon, from sheer lack of pride or even interest in 
such very impersonal agencies, in England, at least, the 
call to arms would be disregarded and the battle-cry 
cease for ever. It is not wonderful, then, that very little 
of our patriotic verse celebrates the country itself, and 
that almost all the best poetry in its honour is a record 
of brave men's achievements and noble exploits on the 
battle-field itself, while it is less in bulk perhaps be- 
cause war is after all a rarer thing than Love and, on 
the whole, not so close an intimate as Nature. 

Thanks are due to the following for their kind help 
in permitting the use of copyright poems : to Lady 
Leighton Warren for a poem by Lord de Tabley, the 
Rev. and Hon. W. E. Bowen for a poem by Edward E. 
Bo wen, Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, Mr. Austin Dobson, 
Sir Everard Hastings Doyle for six poems by Sir 
Francis Hastings Doyle, Sir Alfred Lyall, Mr. Henry 
Newbolt for four poems from The Island Race, Sir 
Rennell Rodd, Mr. George Allen for two poems from 
William Cory's lonica, Mr. Alfred Nutt for three 
poems by W. E. Henley, Mr. Elkin Mathews for a 
poem by Lionel Johnson, Messrs. Methuen & Co. for 
Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Recessional, Messrs. Ellis & 
Elvey for a sonnet by D. G. Rossetti, Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Co. for a sonnet by Charles Tennyson Turner, 
Mr. John Lane for a poem from William Watson's 

or THF 



BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

* This is my own, my native land ! ' 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no Minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 




AND did those feet in ancient time 

Walk upon England's mountains green ? 

And was the holy Lamb of God 

On England's pleasant pastures seen ? 

And did the Countenance Divine 
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ? 

And was Jerusalem build ed here 
Among these dark Satanic mills 1 

Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 

Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
Bring me my spear ! clouds, unfold ! 

Bring me my chariot of fire ! 

I will not cease from mental fight, 
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 

Till we have built Jerusalem 

In England's green and pleasant land. 

William Slake. 



LOVE thou thy land with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch -words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip my fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, binds 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro* many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 

Our being, lest we rust in ease. 

We all are changed by still degrees, 
All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 


Even now we hear with inward strife 

A motion toiling in the gloom 

The Spirit of the years to come 
Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 

Completion in a painful school ; 

Phantoms of other forms of rule, 
New Majesties of mighty States 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 

Is bodied forth the second whole. 

Regard gradation, lest the soul 
Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 

To shame the boast so often made, 
That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 


Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Eaw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



THIS royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 

This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 

This fortress, built by nature for herself, 

Against infection and the hand of war ; 

This happy breed of men, this little world ; 

This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall, 

Or as a moat defensive to a house, 

Against the envy of less happier lands : 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, 

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 

Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth, 

Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 

(For Christian service, and true chivalry,) 

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, 

Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son : 

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, 

Dear for her reputation through the world . . . 

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, 

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 

Of watery Neptune. 


THIS England never did, nor never shall, 
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 
But when it first did help to wound itself. 


Now these her princes are come home again, 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, 

And we shall shock them : Naught shall make us rue, 

If England to itself do rest but true, 

William Shakespeare. 



WHEN the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rod 

Sought with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath a spreading oak 

Sat the Druid, hoary chief, 
Every burning word he spoke 

Full of rage and full of grief : 

4 Princess ! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

4 Rome shall perish, write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt : 

Perish hopeless and abhorred, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

4 Rome, for empire far renowned, 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates. 

' Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name. 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize 
Harmony the path to fame. 


' Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land, 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

1 Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway, 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they.' 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire, 
Bending as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride 
Felt them in her bosom glow, 

Rushed to battle, fought and died, 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

' Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 

Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you ! ' 

William Cowper. 



WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land, 
And guardian angels sang the strain : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations, not so blest as thee, 

Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall ; 
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 
All their attempts to hurl thee down 
Will but arouse thy geii'rous flame, 
And work their woe but thy renown : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 


To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
All thine shall be the subject main, 
And every shore encircle thine : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The Muses, still with Freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned 
And manly hearts to guard the fair : 

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

James TJiomson. 



SONS of Trojan Brutus clothed in war, 
Whose voices are the thunder of the field, 
Rolling dark clouds o'er France, muffling the sun 
In sickly darkness, like a dim eclipse, 
Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire 
Burning up nations in your wrath and fury ! 

Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy 
(Like lions roused by lightning from their dens, 
Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires), 
Heated with war, filled with the blood of Greeks, 
With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore. 
In navies black, broken with wind and tide : 

They landed in firm array upon the rocks 
Of Albion ; they kissed the rocky shore ; 
4 Be thou our mother and our nurse/ they said ; 

1 Our children's mother, and thou shalt be our grave, 
The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence 

Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful 

Our fathers swarm from the ships. 'Giant voices 
Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons 
Of Ocean run from rocks and caves ; wild men, 
Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks, 
And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled 
Thick as a forest, ready for the axe. 


Our fathers move in firm array to battle ; 
The savage monsters rush like roaring fire ; 
Like as a forest roars with crackling flames, 
When the red lightning, borne by furious storms, 
Lights on some woody shore ; the parched heavens 
Eain fire into the molten raging sea. 

The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, 
Spoiled of their verdure. Oh how oft have they 
Defied the storm that howled o'er their heads ! 
Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view 
The mighty dead : giant bodies streaming blood, 
Dread visages frowning in silent death. 

Then Brutus spoke, inspired ; our fathers sit 

Attentive on the melancholy shore : 

Hear ye the voice of Brutus ' The flowing waves 

Of time come rolling o'er my breast,' he said ; 

* And my heart labours with futurity. 

Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea. 

4 Their mighty wings shall stretch from East to West. 

Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam 

Like eagles for the prey ; nor shall the young 

Crave to be heard ; for plenty shall bring forth, 

Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array 

Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness. 

' Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, 
Each one buckling on his armour ; Morning 
Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming, 
And Evening hear their song of victory : 
Their towers shall be built upon the rocks, 
Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining 


* Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, 
Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean ; 
Or tow'ring stand upon the roaring waves. 
Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands ; 
While with her eagle wings she covereth 
Fair Albion's shore, and all her families.' 

William Blake. 




YE buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths, now play 

your parts ; 
Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant 

For news is carried to and fro, that we must forth to 

warfare go : 
Men muster now in every place, and soldiers are pusht 

forth apace 
Faint not, spend blood, to do your Queen and country 

good : 
Fair words, good pay, will make men cast all care away. 

The time of war is come, prepare your corslet, spear, 

and shield ; 
Methinks I hear the drum strike doleful marches to 

the field ; 
Tantara, tantara, ye trumpets sound, which makes our 

hearts with joy abound, 
The roaring guns are heard afar, and everything de- 

nounceth war. 
Serve God ; stand stout ; bold courage brings this 

gear about ; 
Fear not ; fate runs ; faint heart fair lady never won. 

Ye curious carpet-knights, that spend the time in sport 

and play ; 
Abroad and see new sights, your country's cause calls 

you away ; 


Do not to make your ladies' game, bring blemish to 

your worthy name, 
Away to field and win renown, with courage beat your 

enemies down, 
Stout hearts gain praise, when dastards sail in Slander's 

seas ; 
Hap what hap shall, we sure shall die but once for all. 

Alarm methinks they cry. Be packing, mates ; begone 

with speed ; 
Our foes are very nigh ; shame have that man that 

shrinks at need. 
Unto it boldly let us stand, God will give Right the 

upper hand, 
Our cause is good, we need not doubt ; in sign of coming 

give a shout. 
March forth, be strong, good hap will come ere it be 

Shrink not, fight well, for lusty lads must bear the bell. 

All you that will shun evil, must dwell in warfare 

every day ; 
The world, the flesh, and devil, always do seek our soul's 

Strive with these foes with all your might, so shall you 

fight a worthy fight. 
That conquest doth deserve most praise, where vice do 

yield to virtue's ways. 

Beat down foul sin, a worthy crown then shall ye win ; 
If you live well, in heaven with Christ our souls shall 


Humphry Gifford. 



YE Mariners of England 

That guard our native seas ! 
Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ; 
And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ! 
While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ! 
While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 


With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 
As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ! 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 
Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ! 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



OLD England to thyself be true, 
Firm as this rock thy fame shall stand : 

The sword that Eliott, Curtis drew, 
Be never wanted through the land. 

Join then this prayer, our foes shall rue, 
Let England to herself be true. 

Though foes on foes contending throng, 
And dreadful havock threaten round, 

Thy flaming bolts shall whirl along, 

Throughout the world thy thunders sound : 

Nought then on earth shall make us rue, 
Let England to herself be true. 

What though no grand alliance share 
Each warlike, envied deed of thine ; 

J Tis doubly glorious thus to dare, 
Against the world in arms to shine. 

Nought then shall make Britannia rue, 
Let Britons to themselves be true. 





MEN of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 

Men whose undegenerate spirit 

Has been proved on land and flood. 

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
Sydney's matchless shade is yours, 

Martyrs in heroic story, 
Worth a thousand Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of sires that baffled 

Crowned and mitred tyranny : 
They defied the field and scaffold, 

For their birthright so will we. 

Thomas Campbell. 



SONS of Shannon, Tamar, Trent, 
Men of the Lothians, men of Kent, 
Essex, Wessex, shore and shire, 
Mates of the net, the mine, the fire, 
Lads of desk and wheel and loom, 
Noble and trader, squire and groom, 
Come where the bugles of England play, 
Over the hills and far away ! 

Southern Cross and Polar Star 
Here are the Britons bred afar ; 
Serry, serry them, fierce and keen, 
Under the flag of the Empress-Queen ; 
Shoulder to shoulder, down the track, 
Where, to the unretreating Jack, 
The victor bugles of England play 
Over the hills and far aivay ! 

What if the best of our wages be 
An empty sleeve, a stiff-set knee, 
A crutch for the rest of life who cares, 
So long as the One Flag floats and dares ? 
So long as the One Race dares and grows ? 
Death what is death but God's own rose ? 
Let but the bugles of England play 
Over the hills and far away ! 

William Ernest Henley. 



OH where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie 

He's gone to fight the French for King George upon 

the throne ; 
And it's oh, in my heart, how I wish him safe at home ! 

Oh where, and oh where, does your Highland laddie 

He dwells in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue 

Bell ; 
And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well. 

In what clothes, in what clothes is your Highland 

laddie clad ? 
His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the 

plaid ; 
And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my Highland lad. 

Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should 

The bagpipes shall play over him, and I'll lay me down 

and cry ; 
And it's oh, in my heart, I wish he may not die. 




THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find him ; 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. 
* Land of song ! ; said the warrior-bard, 

' Though all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee ! ' 

The Minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its cords asunder ; 
And said ' No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the brave and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery ! ' 

Thomas Moore. 



PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The warpipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come every hill-plaid and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 


Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended. 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



STORE of courage to me grant, 
Now I'm turn'd a combatant ; 
Help me, so that I my shield, 
Fighting, lose not in the field. 
That's the greatest shame of all 
That in warfare can befall. 
Do but this, and there shall be 
Offer'd up a wolf to thee. 

Robert Herrick. 



A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde, 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And ! the thundering presse of knightes 

Whenas their war cryes swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel brighte, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, 

And don your helmes amaine : 
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honour, call 

Us to the field again e. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand, 
Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sigbe 

For the fayrest of the land ! 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and puling crye, 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die ! 

William Motherwell. 




To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas, 
The voice of battle's on the breeze, 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the Leopard's spoils surround 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crowned ; 

We boast the red and blue. 

Though tamely crowd to Gallic's prow 

Dull Holland's tardy train ; 
Their vanished toys, though Komans mourn, 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

! had they marked the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave, 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, 

Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born, 
Dress our pale cheek in fervid smile, 
To hail a master in our isle, 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 


No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day, 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, 

And set that night in blood. 

For gold let Gallic's legions fight, 

Or plunder's bloody gain : 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our King, to fence our Law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of British gale 

Shall fan the tricolor, 
Or footsteps of invader rude, 
With rapine foul, and red with blood, 

Pollute our happy shore, 

Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! 

Adieu each tender tie ! 
Resolved we mingle in the tide, 
Where charging squadrons furious ride, 

To conquer, or to die. 

To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle call ; 
Combined by honor's sacred tie ; 
Our word is Laws and Liberty ! 

March forward, one and all ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark ; 

What then ? 'Tis day ! 
We sleep no more ; the cock crows hark ! 

To arms ! away ! 
They come ! they come ! the knell is rung 

Of us or them ; 
Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung 

Of gold and gem. 
What collar'd hound of lawless sway, 

To famine dear 
What pension'd slave of Attila, 

Leads in the rear ? 
Come they from Scythian wilds afar, 

Our blood to spill 1 
Wear they the livery of the Czar ? 

They do his will. 
Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, 

Nor plume, nor torse 
No splendour gilds, all sternly met, 

Our foot and horse. 
But, dark and still, we inly glow 

Condensed in ire ! 
Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know 

Our gloom is fire. 
In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, 

Insults the land ; 
Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, 

And God's right hand ! 


Madmen ! they trample into snakes 

The moving clod ! 
Like fire beneath their feet awakes 

The sword of God ! 
Behind, before, above, below, 

They rouse the brave ; 
Where'er they go, they make a foe, 

Or find a grave. 

Ebenezer Elliot. 



ARM, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in ; 
Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. 
Behold from yonder hill the foe appears ; 
Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears ! 
Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring ; 
view the wings of horse the meadows scouring ! 
The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums ! 

Dub, dub ! 

They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes : 
See how the arrows fly 
That darken all the sky ! 
Hark how the trumpets sound ! 
Hark how the hills rebound 

Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara ! 

Hark how the horses charge ! in, boys ! boys, in ! 
The battle totters ; now the wounds begin : 

how they cry ! 

how they die ! 

Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder I 
See how he breaks the ranks asunder ! 
They fly ! they fly ! Eumenes has the chase, 
And brave Polybius makes good his place : 

To the plains, to the woods, 

To the rocks, to the floods, 
They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow ! 
Hark how the soldiers hollow ! 

Hey, hey ! 


Brave Diocles is dead, 
And all his soldiers fled ; 
The battle's won, and lost, 
That many a life hath cost. 





WE come in arms, we stand ten score, 

Embattled on the castle green ; 
We grasp our firelocks tight, for war 

Is threatening, and we see our Queen. 
And ' will the churls last out till we 

Have duly hardened bones and thews 
For scouring leagues of swamp and sea 

Of braggart mobs and corsair crews 1 ' 
We ask ; we fear not scoff or smile 

At meek attire of blue and grey, 
For the proud wrath that thrills our isle 

Gives faith and force to this array. 
So great a charm is England's right, 

That hearts enlarged together flow, 
And each man rises up a knight 

To work the evil- thinkers woe. 
And, girt with ancient truth and grace, 

We do our service and our suit, 
And each can be, whate'er his race, 

A Chandos or a Montacute. 
Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day, 

Bless the real swords that we shall wield, 
Repeat the call we now obey 

In sunset lands, on some fair field 
Thy Flag shall make some Huron rock 

As dear to us as Windsor's keep, 
And arms thy Thames has nerved shall mock 

The surgings of th' Ontarian deep. 


The stately music of thy Guards, 

Which times our march beneath thy ken, 
Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, 

From heart to heart, when we are men. 
And when we bleed on alien earth, 

We'll call to mind how cheers of ours 
Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth 

Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. 
And if for England's sake we fall, 

So be it, so thy cross be won, 
Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, 

And worn in death, for duty done. 
Ah ! thus we fondle Death, the Soldier's mate, 

Blending his image with the hopes of youth 
To hallow all ; meanwhile the hidden fate 

Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. 
Death from afar we call, and Death is here, 

To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien ; 
And grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, 

Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our 

William Cory. 



SCOTS, wha hae wi ; Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower, 
See approach proud Edward's power 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's King and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' 1 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do, or die ! 

Robert Burns. 



GOD prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy Chace befall ; 

To drive the deere with hound and horn 

Erie Percy took his way ; 
The child may rue that is unborn, 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Erie of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take, 

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chace 

To kill and bear away. 
These tydings to Erie Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay : 

Who sent Erie Percy present word, 

He wold prevent his sport, 
The English Erie, not fearing that, 

Did to the woods resort 


With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of neede 

To ayme their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chase the fallow deere : 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Ere daylight did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 

An hundred fat buckes slaine ; 
Then having dined, the drovyers went 

To rouse the deere againe. 

The bow-men mustered on the hills, 

Well able to endure ; 
Their backsides all with special care 

That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 

The nimble deere to take, 
And with their cryes the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, 

To view the slaughtered deere ; 
Quoth he, ' Erie Douglas promised 

This day to meet me here, 

But if I thought he wold not come 

No longer wold I stay.' 
With that a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the Erie did say : 


' Lo, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, 
His men in armour bright, 

Full twenty hundred Scottish speares 
All marching in our sight ; 

All men of pleasant Tivy dale, 
Fast by the river T weeded 

' 0, cease your sports,' Erie Percy said, 
* And take your bowes with speede ; 

And now with me, my countrymen, 
Your courage forth advance, 

For there was never champion yet, 
In Scotland or in France, 

That ere did on horsebacke come, 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

And with him break a speare.' 


Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his company, 

Whose armour shone like gold. 

' Shew me, 5 said he, ' whose men ye be, 

That hunt so boldly here, 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kill my fallow-deere.' 

The first man that did answer make, 
"Was noble Percv he ; 


Who sayd, ' We list not to declare, 
Nor shew what men we be, 


Yet we will spend our dearest blood, 

Thy chief est harts to slay.' 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

And this in rage did say : 

1 Ere thus I will out-braved be, 

One of us two shall dye : 
I know thee well, an erle thou art ; 

Lord Percy, st) am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pitty it were, 

And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltlesse men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battell trye, 

And set our men aside.' 
1 Accurst be he,' Erie Percy said, 

' By whom this is denied.' 

Then stept a gallant squire forth, 

Witherington was his name, 
Who said, ' I wold not have it told 

To Henry our king for shame, 

That ere my captaine fought on foote, 

And I stood looking on. 
Ye be two erles,' said Witherington, 

' And I a squire alone : 

lie do the best that do I may, 

While I have power to stand : 
While I have power to wield my sword, 

He fight with heart and hand.' 



Our English archers bent their bowes, 
Their hearts were good and true, 

At the first flight of arrowes sent, 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent, 
As Chieftain stout and good, 

As valiant Captain, all unmoved 
The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three, 

As leader ware and try'd, 
And soon his spearmen on their foes 

Bore down on every side. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound ; 

But still our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground, 

And, throwing strait their bowes away, 
They grasped their swords so bright, 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found, 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

Christ it were a grief to see, 
And likewise for to heare, 

The cries of men lying in their gore, 
And scattered here and there ! 


At last these two stout erles did meet, 

Like captaines of great might : 
Like lions wode, they laid on lode, 

And made a cruel fight : 

They fought untill they both did sweat 

With swords of tempered steele ; 
Until the blood like drops of rain 

They trickling downe did feele. 

* Yield thee, Lord Percy,' Douglas said ; 

' In faith I will thee bringe, 
Where thou shalt high advanced be 

By James our Scottish king ; 

Thy ransome I will freely give, 

And this report of thee, 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see.' 

' No, Douglas,' quoth Erie Percy then, 

' Thy proffer I do scorne ; 
I will not yield to any Scot, 

That ever yet was borne.' 

With that, there came an arrow keene 

Out of an English bow, 
Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, 

A deep and deadly blow : 

Who never spake more words than these, 

i Fight on, my merry men all ; 
For why, my life is at an end ; 

Lord Percy sees my fall.' 


Then leaving life, Erie Percy tooke 
The dead man by the hand ; 

And said, ' Erie Douglas, for thy life 
Wold I had lost my land ! 

Christ ! my very heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake, 
For sure, a more redoubted knight 

Mischance could never take.' 

A knight amongst the Scots there was, 
Which saw Erie Douglas dye, 

Who straight in wroth did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percye. 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, 
Who, with a speare most bright, 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight, 

And past the English archers all, 

Without or dread or feare, 
And through Erie Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful speare. 

With such a vehement force and might 

He did his body gore, 
The staff ran throughe the other side 

A large cloth -yard and more. 

So thus did both these nobles dye, 
Whose courage none could staine ! 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Erie was slaine : 


He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Up to the head drew he ; 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye 

So right the shaft he set, 
The grey goose-winge that was thereon- 

In his heart's blood e was wet. 

This fight did last from breake of day 

Till setting of the sun ; 
For when they rung the evening-bell,. 

The battle scarce was done. 


With stout Erie Percy, there was slairie 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold bar6n : 

And with Sir George and stout Sir 
Both knights of good account, 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, 
Whose prowesse did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wayle, 

As one in doleful dumpes ; 
For when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumpes. 

And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine- 

Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foote would never flee ; 


Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, 

His sister's sonne was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved he could not be ; 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Erie Douglas dye : 
Of twenty hundred Scottish speares, 

Scarce fifty-five did flye. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three : 
The"rest were slain in Chevy Chace, 

Under the greene woode tree. 

Next day did many widdowes come, 

Their husbands to bewayle ; 
They washt their wounds in brinish teares, 

But all wold not prevayle ; 

Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore, 

They bore with them away ; 
They kist their dead a thousand times, 

Erst they were clad in clay. 


The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Where Scotland's king did reigne, 

That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye 
Was with an arrowe slaine : 

* dreary newes,' King James did say, 

; Scotland may witness be, 
I have not any captaine more 

Of such account as he. 3 


Like tydings to King Henry came, 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slaine in Chevy-Chace : 

'Now God be with him/ said our king, 

1 Sith it will no better be ; 
I trust I have, within my realme, 

Five hundred good as he : 

Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say, 

But I will vengeance take : 
I'll be revenged on them all, 

For brave Erie Percy's sake. 1 

This vow full well the king performed 

After, at Humbledowne ; 
In one day, fifty knights were slayne, 

With lords of great renowne. 

And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many thousands dye. 
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, 

Made by the Erie Percye. 

God save our king, and bless this land 

With plenty e, joy, and peace, 
And grant henceforth that f oule debate 

'Twixt noblemen may cease. 






FOR a muse of fire, that would ascend 

The brightest heaven of invention ! 

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, 

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene ! 

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, 

Assume the port of Mars ; and, at his heels, 

Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire, 

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, 

The flat unraised spirit, that hath dared, 

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 

So great an object : Can this cockpit hold 

The vasty fields of France ? or may we cram 

Within this wooden the very casques 

That did affright the air at Agincourt ? 

0, pardon ! since a crooked figure may 

Attest, in little place, a million ; 

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, 

On your imaginary forces work : 

Suppose, within the girdle of these walls 

Are now confined two mighty monarchies, 

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts 

The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder. 

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; 

Into a thousand parts divide one man, 

And make imaginary puissance : 

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them 


Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth : 
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, 
Carry them here and there ; jumping o'er times ; 
Turning the accomplishment of many years 
Into an hour-glass ; For the which supply, 
Admit me chorus to this history : 
Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray, 
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.. 


Now all the youth of England are on fire, 
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies ; 
Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought 
Reigns solely in the breast of every man : 
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse ; 
Following the mirror of all Christian kings, 
With winged heels, as English Mercuries. 
For now sits Expectation in the air ; 
And hides a sword, from hilts unto the point, 
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, 
Promis'd to Harry, and his followers. 
The French, advis'd by good intelligence 
Of this most dreadful preparation, 
Shake in their fear ; and with pale policy 
Seek to divert the English purposes. 
England ! model to thy inward greatness, 
Like little body with a mighty heart, 
What might'st thou do, that honour would thee do, 
Were all thy children kind and natural ! 
But see thy fault ! France hath in thee found out 
A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills 
With treacherous crowns ; and three corrupted men,- 
One, Richard earl of Cambridge ; and the second, 



Henry lord Scroop of Masham ; and the third, 
Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, 
Have, for the gilt of France, (0 guilt, indeed !) 
Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France ; 
And by their hands this grace of kings must die, 
If hell and treason hold their promises, 
Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. 
Linger your patience on, and we'll digest 
The abuse of distance ; force a play. 
The sum is paid ; the traitors are agreed ; 
The king is set from London ; and the scene 
Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton : 
There is the playhouse now, there must you sit : 
And thence to France shall we convey you safe, 
And bring you back, charming the narrow seas 
To give you gentle pass ; for, if we may, 
We'll not offend one stomach with our play. 
But, till the king come forth, and not till then, 
Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. 


Now entertain conjecture of a time, 

When creeping murmur, and the poring dark, 

Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, 

The hum of either army stilly sounds, 

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 

The secret whispers of each other's watch : 

Fire answers fire : and through their paly flames 

Each battle sees the other's umber'd face : 

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs 

Piercing the night's dull ear ; and from the tents, 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 


With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation. 

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, 

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul, 

The confident and over-lusty French 

Do the low-rated English play at dice ; 

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night, 

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp 

So tediously away. The poor condemned English, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate 

The morning's danger ; and their gesture sad 

Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats, 

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon 

So many horrid ghosts. 0, now, who will behold 

The royal captain of this ruin'd band, 

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, 

Let him cry Praise and glory on his head ! 

For forth he goes, and visits all his host ; 

Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile : 

And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. 

Upon his royal face there is no note 

How dread an army hath enrounded him ; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 

Unto the weary and all-watched night : 

But freshly looks, and overbears attaint 

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty : 

That every wretch, pining and pale before, 

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks : 

A largess universal, like the sun, 

His liberal eye doth give to every one, 

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all 


Behold (as may unworthiness define) 
A little touch of Harry in the night : 
And so our scene must to the battle fly ; 
Where, (0 for pity !) we shall much disgrace 
With four or five most vile and ragged foils, 
Right ill-dispos'd in brawl ridiculous, 
The name of Agincourt : Yet, sit and see ; 
Minding true things by what their mockeries^be. 

William Shakespeare. 



FAIR stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnish'd in warlike sort, 
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopp'd his way, 
Where the French gen'ral lay 

With all his power. 

Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

Unto him sending ; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile 

Their fall portending. 


And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
1 Though they to one be ten 

Be not amazed : 
Yet have we well begun ; 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

S c And for myself (quoth he) 
This my full rest shall be : 
England ne'er mourn for me 

Nor more esteem me : 
Victor I will remain 
Or on this earth lie slain, 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

' Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell : 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopp'd the French lilies.' 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped 
Among his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there ; 


Lord, how hot they were 
On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone, . 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake : 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces ! 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather ; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbos drew, 
And on the French they flew, 
Not one was tardy ; 


Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went- 
Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it ; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood 

With his brave brother ; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made 

Still as they ran up ; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's Day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 
To England to carry. 


when shall English men 
With such acts fill a pen ? 
Or England breed again 
Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Drayton. 



AGINCOURT, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt, 
Where English slew and hurt 

All their French foemen ? 
With their pikes and bills brown, 
How the French were beat down, 

Shot by our Bowmen ? 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt, 
Never to be forgot, 

Or known to no men ? 
Where English cloth-yard arrows 
Killed the French like tame sparrows, 

Slain by our Bowmen 1 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt ? 
English of every sort, 

High men and low men, 
Fought that day wondrous well, 
All our old stories tell, 

Thanks to our Bowmen ! 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt 1 
Where our fifth Harry taught 

Frenchmen to know men : 


And, when the day was done, 
Thousands there fell to one 

Good English Bowman ! 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! 
Know ye not Agincourt ? 
Dear was the vict'ry bought 

By fifty yeomen. 
Ask any English wench, 
They were worth all the French, 

Rare English Bowmen ! 




THE fifteenth day of July, 

With glistening spear and shield, 
A famous fight inTlanders 

Was foughten in the field ; 
The most conspicuous officers 

Were English captains three, 
But the bravest man in battle 

Was brave Lord Willoughby. 

The next was Captain Norris, 

A valiant man was he ; 
The other, Captain Turner, 

From field would never flee, 
With fifteen hundred fighting men, 

Alas ! there were no more, 
They fought with forty thousand then 

Upon the bloody shore. 

1 Stand to it, noble pikemen, 

And look you round about, 
And shoot you right, you bowmen, 

And we will keep them out : 
You musquet and calliver men, 

Do you prove true to me, 
I'll be the bravest man in fight, 3 

Says brave Lord Willoughby. 


And then the bloody enemy 

They fiercely did assail, 
And fought it out most furiously, 

Not doubting to prevail ; 
The wounded men on both sides fell 

Most piteous for to see, 
But nothing could the courage quell 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

For seven hours to all men's view 

This fight endured sore, 
Until our men so feeble grew I 

That they could fight no more x ; 
And then upon dead horses ^SA! 

Full savourly did eat, 
And drank the puddle water, 

That could no better get. 

When they had fed so freely, 

They kneeled on the ground, 
And praised God devoutly 

For the favour they had found ; 
And bearing up their colours, 

The fight they did renew, 
And cutting tow'rds the Spaniards, 

Five thousand more they slew. 

The sharp steel-pointed arrows 

And bullets thick did fly ; 
Then did our valiant soldiers 

Charge on most furiously : 
Which made the Spaniards waver, 

They thought it best to flee : 
They feared the stout behaviour 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 


Then quoth the Spanish general, 

' Come, let us march away, 
I fear we shall be spoiled all 

If that we longer stay : 
For yonder comes Lord Willoughby 

With courage fierce and fell, 
He will not give one inch of ground 

For all the devils in hell.' 

And when the fearful enemy 

Was quickly put to flight, 
Our men pursued courageously 

To rout his forces quite ; 
And at last they gave a shout 

Which echoed through the sky : 
1 God, and St. George for England ! ' 

The conquerors did cry. 

This news was brought to England 

With all the speed might be, 
And soon our gracious Queen was told 

Of this same victory. 
i ! this is brave Lord Willoughby, 

My love that ever won : 
Of all the lords of honour 

'Tis he great deeds hath done ! ' 

To the soldiers that were maimed, 

And wounded in the fray, 
The queen allowed a pension 

Of fifteen pence a day, 
And from all costs and charges 

She quit and set them free : 
And this she did all for the sake 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 


Then courage, noble Englishmen, 

And never be dismayed ! 
If that we be but one to ten, 

We will not be afraid 
To fight with foreign enemies, 

And set our country free. 
And thus I end the bloody bout 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 




NEXT morn the Baron climbed the tower, 
To view afar the Scottish power 

Encamped on Flodden edge : 
The white pavilions made a show, 
Like remnants of the winter snow, 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Long Marmion looked : at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines : 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
For flashing on the hedge of spears 

The eastern sunbeam shines. 
Their front now deepening, now extending ; 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing back, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know, 
They watched the motions of some foe 
Who traversed on the plain below. 

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
The Scots beheld the English host 
Leave Barmont-wood, their evening post, 
And heedful watched them as they crossed 

The Till by Twisel bridge, 

High sight it is and haughty, while 
They dive into the deep defile ; 
Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 
Beneath the castle's airy wall, 


By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, 

Troop after troop are disappearing ; 

Troop after troop their banners rearing 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den, 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men, 

In slow succession still, 
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on in ceaseless march 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel ! thy rocks deep echo rang ; 
And many a chief of birth and rank, 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 
Had then from many an axe its doom, 
To give the marching columns room. 

And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while 
And struggles through the deep defile 1 
What checks the fiery soul of James 1 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed's southern strand, 

His host Lord Surrey lead ! 
What Vails the vain knight-errant's brand ? 
0, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy epeed ! 


for one hour of Wallace wight, 

Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, 
And cry ' Saint Andrew and our right ! ' 
Another sight had seen that morn, 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannock burn ! 
The precious hour has passed in vain, 
And England's host has gained the plain ; 
Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 


1 But see ! look up on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent. 7 

And sudden, as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
All downward to the banks of Till 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone 
Announced their march : their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain- throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, 

Until at weapon-point they close. 
They close in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth 


And fiends in upper air ; 

life and death were in the shout, 

Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long looked their anxious squires : their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descrv. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast : 
And first the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
As in s the storm the white sea-mew. 
Then marked they, dashing broad and far, 
The broken billows of the war, 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But nought distinct they see : 
Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain : 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright 
Still bear them bravely in the fight : 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan, 

With Huntly and with Home. 


Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
Through these the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside, 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
'Twas vain : but Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

Then Howard's lion fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, forced back, now low, now high, 

The pennon sank and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered 'mid the foes. 


By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots, around their king, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home 1 
for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

That to King Charles did come, 
When Roland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer, 


On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side 
Afar the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride. 

But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hailed, 
In headlong charge their horse assailed ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep 

That fought around their king. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spear-men still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight ; 
Linked in the serried phalanx fight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 
And from the charge they drew, 


As mountain-waves from wasted lands 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know ; 
Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, 
They melted from the field, as snow, 
When streams are swoln and south winds blow, 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 

While many a broken band 
Disordered through her convents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to town and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife and carnage drear 

Of Flodden's fatal field, 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



FROM mercilesse invaders, 
From wicked men's device, 

God ! arise and helpe us, 
To quel owre enemies. 

Sinke deepe their potent navies, 

Their strength and corage break, 
God ! arise and arm us, 

For Jesus Christ, his sake. 
Though cruel Spain and Parma 

With heathen legions come, 
God ! arise and arm us, 

We'll dye for owre home ! 

We will not change owre Credo 
For Pope, nor boke, nor bell ; 

And if the Devil come himself, 
We'll hound him back to hell. 

Jolvn Still. 



SOME years of late, in eighty-eight, 

As I do well remember, 
It was, some say, the middle of May, 

And some say in September, 
And some say in September. 

The Spanish train launch'd forth amain, 

With many a fine bravado, 
Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) 

Invincible Armado, 
Invincible Armado. 

There was a man that dwelt in Spain 

Who shot well with a gun a, 
Don Pedro hight, black as a wight 

As the Knight of the Sun a, 
As the Knight of the Sun a. 

King Philip made him Admiral, 

And bid him not to stay a, 
But to destroy both man and boy 

And so to come away a, 
And so to come away a. 

Their navy was well victualled 

With bisket, pease and bacon, 
They brought two ships, well fraught with whips, 

But I think they were mistaken, 
But I think they were mistaken. 


Their men were young, munition strong, 

And to do us more harm a, 
They thought it meet to joyn their fleet 

All with the Prince of Parma, 
All with the Prince of Parma. 

They coasted round about our land, 
And so came in by Dover : 
ut we had men set on 'em then, 
And threw the rascals over, 
And threw the rascals over. 

The Queen was then at Tilbury, 

What could we more desire a ? 
Sir Francis Drake for her sweet sake 

Did set them all on fire a, 
Did set them all on fire a. 

Then straight they fled by sea and land, 

That one man kill'd threescore a, 
And had not they all 'run away, 

In truth he had kill'd more a, 
In truth he had kill'd more a. 

Then let them neither bray nor boast, 

But if they come again a, 
Let them take heed they do not speed 

As they did you know when a, 
As they did you know when a. 





ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England s 

praise : 
I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in 

ancient days, 
When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in 


It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, 
There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Ply- 
mouth bay ; 
The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurig- 

ny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

grace ; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in 

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the 

wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty 


Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast ; 
And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland 

many a post. 


With his white hair, unbonnetted, the stout old 

sheriff comes, 
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound 

the drums : 
The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and 

ample space, 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of her 

grace : 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the 


As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. 
Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 

down ! 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed 

Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle 

shield : 
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned 

to bay, 
And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely 

hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight ! ho ! scatter 

flowers, fair maids ! 
Ho, gunners ! fire a loud salute ! ho, gallants ! draw 

vour blades ! 


Thou, sun, shine on her joyously ! ye breezes, waft her 

wide ! 
Our glorious Semper Eadem! the banner of our pride ! 

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 

massy fold 

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 
scroll of gold : 


Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple 

sea ; 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again 

shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 

Milford bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the 

For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning 

radiance spread- 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone it shone on 

Beachy Head : 
Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern 

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling 

points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering 

The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's 

sunless caves ; 
O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery 

herald flew, 
And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge the rangers 

of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night 

from Bristol town ; 
And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on 

Clifton Down. 

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into 

the night, 

And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of 
blood-red light : 


The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like 

silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city 

woke ; 
At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering 

fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling 

spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear, 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder cheer : 
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of 

hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down 

each rousing street : 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still 

the din, 

As fast from every village round the horse came spur- 
ring in ; 

And eastward straight, for wild Blackheath, the war- 
like errand went ; 
And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant 

squires of Kent : 
Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those 

bright coursers forth ; 
High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started 

for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded 

still ; 
All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night 

from hill to hill ; 
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's 

rocky dales ; 


Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills 
of Wales ; 

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 
lonely height ; 

Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's 
crest of light ; 

Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's 
stately fane, 

And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the bound- 
less plain ; 

Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent, 

And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of 
Trent ; 

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's em- 
battled pile, 

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay. 



KING PHILIP had vaunted his claims ; 

He had sworn for a spear he would sack us : 

With an army of heathenish names 

He was coming to fagot and stack us ; 

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 

And shatter our ships on the main ; 

But we had bold Neptune to back us 

And where are the galleons of Spain ? 

His carackes were christened of dames 
To'the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; 
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames 
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; 
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again, 
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus 
For where are the galleons of Spain ? 

Let his Majesty hang to S.t. James 
The axe that he whetted to hack us ; 
He must play at some lustier games 
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; 
To the mines of Peru he would pack us 
To tug at his bullet and chain : 
Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! 
But where are the galleons of Spain ? 



GLORIANA ! the don may attack us 
Whenever his stomach be fain ; 
He must reach us before he can rack us, . 
And where are the galleons of Spain ? 

Austin Dobson. 



LONG the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, 

Threatning our country with fyer and sword ; 
Often preparing their navy most sumptuous 
With as great plenty as Spain could afford. 

Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums ; 
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes. 

To the seas presently e went our lord admiral, 
With knights couragious and captains full good ; 

The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general, 
With him prepared to pass the salt flood. 

At Plymouth speed i lye, took they ship valiantly e, 
Braver ships never were seen under sayle, 

With their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their 

Now bragging Spaniards, take heed of your tayle. 

Unto Gales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, 
Where the kinges navy securelye did ryde ; 

Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, 
Ere any Spaniards our coming descryde. 

Great was the crying, the running and ryding, 
Which at that season was made in that place ; 

The beacons were fyred, as need then required ; 
To hyde their great treasure they had little space. 


There you might see their ships, how they were fyred 


And how their men drowned themselves in the sea ; 
There you might hear them cry, wayle and weep pite- 

When they saw no shift to 'scape thence away. 

The great St. Phillip, the pryde of the Spaniards, 
Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea ; 

But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew, 
Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. 

The Earl of Essex, most valiant and hardye, 

With horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town ; 

The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, 
Did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. 

Now, quoth the noble Earl, courage my soldiers all, 
Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have ; 

And be well rewarded all from the great to the small ; 
But look that the women and children you save. 

The Spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, 
Hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne ; 

Wee marched in presently e, decking the walls on hye, 
With English colours which purchas'd renowne. 

Entering the houses then, of the most richest men, 
For gold and treasure we searched eche day ; 

In some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, 
Meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. 

Full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, 
Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre : 

Which soldiers measur'd out by the length of their 

swords ; 
Of all commodities eche had a share. 


Thus Gales was taken, and our brave general 
March'd to the market-place, where he did stand : 

There many prisoners fell to our several shares, 
Many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd. 

When our brave general saw they delayed all, 

And would not ransome their towne as they said, 
With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, 
Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made ; 
And when the town burned all in a flame, 
With tara, tantara, away we all came. 




COME, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, 

To add something more to this wonderful year, 

To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, 

For who are so free as the sons of the waves ? 

Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady. 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, 
They never see us but they wish us away ; 
If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, 
For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. 
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady, 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, 
Her standard be justice, her watchword 'Be free' ; 
Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing 
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. 
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, 

We always are ready, 

Steady, boys, steady, 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

David Garrick. 



IT was a' for our rightfu' King 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' King 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

my dear. 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main, 

my dear, 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turned him right and round about, 

Upon the Irish shore : 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
my dear, 

Adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor frae the main : 
But I hae parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 

my dear, 

Never to meet again. 


When day is gane, and night is come, 

And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
I think on him that's far awa, 
The lee-lang night and weep. 

my dear, 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 




KENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing : 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folks droop, 

Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 


God for King Charles. Pym and such carles 

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! 

Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 

Till you're 

Chorus. Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 


Hampden to Hell, and his obsequies' knell 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well ! 
England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here 

Chorus. Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ? 



Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles ! 
Hold by the right, you double your might ; 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the light, 
Chorus. March we along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ! 

Robert Browning. 



KING CHARLES, and who'll do him right now ? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 


Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
Who helped me to gold that I spent since ? 
Who found me in wine you drank once ? 
Chorus. King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? 

King Charles, and ivho's ripe for fight now ? 

Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite now, 

King Charles! 


To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him 1 
Chorus. King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 

Robert Browning. 



CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms 

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 

If deed of honour did thee ever please, 

Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 

He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
Whatever clime the Sun's bright circle warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 

Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 
Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 

John Milton. 






THE forward youth that would appear 
Must now forsake his Muses dear, 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing. 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armour's rust, 

Removing from the wall 

The corslet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star : 

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide : 

For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And with such, to enclose 

Is more than to oppose. 


Then burning through the air he went 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Caesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 

'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry Heaven's flame ; 
And if we would speak true, 
Much to the man is due, 

Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 
(As if his highest plot 
To plant the bergamot), 

Could by industrious valour climb 
To ruin the great work of time, 
And cast the Kingdoms old 

Though Justice against Fate complain, 
And plead the ancient rights in vain 
But those do hold or break 
As men are strong or weak 

Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration less, 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war 
Where his were not the deepest scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art ; 


Where, twining subtle fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 

To Caresbrooke's narrow case ; 

That thence the Royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn ; 

While round the armed bands 

Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try ; 

Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bow'd his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power : 

So when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 

A Bleeding Head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run ; 

And yet in that the State 

Foresaw its happy fate ! 

And now the Irish are ashamed 

To see themselves in one year tamed : 

So much one man can do 

That does both act and know. 


They can affirm his praises best, 
And have, though overcome, confest 
How good he is, how just 
And fit for highest trust. 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the republic's hand 

How fit he is to sway 

That can so well obey ! 

He to the Commons' feet presents 
A Kingdom for his first year's rents, 
And, what he may, forbears 
His fame, to make it theirs : 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
To lay them at the public's skirt. 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having kilPd, no more doth search 
But on the next green bough to perch ; 
Where, when he first does lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 

What may not then our Isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume ? 
What may not others fear, 
If thus he crowns each year ? 

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all States not free 

Shall climacteric be. 


The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his particolour'd mind, 

But, from this valour, sad 

Shrink underneath the plaid ; 

Happy, if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 
March indefatigably on ; 

And for the last effect, 

Still keep the sword erect : 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The Spirits of the shady night, 

The same arts that did gain 

A power, must it maintain. 

Andrew Marvell. 



GREAT, good, and just ! could I but rate 

My griefs and thy too rigid fate, 

I'd weep the world to such a strain, 

As it should deluge once again. 

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies 

More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, 

I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds, 

And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds. 

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 



To my true king I offer'd free from stain 
Courage and faith ; vain faith, and courage vain. 
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, 
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. 
For him I languish'd in a foreign clime, 
Grey-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime ; 
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, 
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees ; 
Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep, 
Each morning started from the dream to weep ; 
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave 
The resting place I ask'd, an early grave. 
thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, 
From that proud country which was once mine own, 
By those white cliffs I never more must see, 
By that dear language which I spake like thee, 
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear 
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay. 





SEE how the flowers, as at parade, 
Under their colours stand display 'd : 
Each regiment in order grows, 
That of the tulip, pink, and rose. 
But when the vigilant patrol 
Of stars walks round about the pole, 
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, 
Seem to their staves the ensigns f url'd. 
Then in some flower's beloved hut 
Each bee, as sentinel., is shut, 
And sleeps so too ; but if once stirr'd, 
She runs you through, nor asks the word. 
thou, that dear and happy Isle, 
The garden of the world erewhile, 
Thou Paradise of the four seas 
Which Heaven planted us to please, 
But, to exclude the world, did guard 
With wat'ry if not flaming sword ; 
What luckless apple did we taste 
To make us mortal and thee waste ! 
Unhappy ! shall we never more 
That sweet militia restore, 
When gardens only had their towers, 
And all the garrisons were flowers ; 
When roses only arms might bear, 
And men did rosy garlands wear ? 

Andrew Mar veil. 




WHERE the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along 
The listening winds received this song : 

* What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage : 
He gave us this eternal Spring 
Which here enamels everything, 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air : 
He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet 
And throws the melons at our feet ; 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon He stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 


He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound His name. 
0, let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay ! ' 

Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew MarvelL 



You brave heroic minds 

Worthy your country's name, 
That honour still pursue ; 
Go and subdue ! 
Whilst loitering hinds 

Lurk here at home with shame. 

Britons, you stay too long : 
Quickly aboard bestow you, 
And with a merry gale 
Swell your stretch'd sail 
With vows as strong 

As the winds that blow you. 

Your course securely steer, 

West and by south forth keep ! 
Kocks, lee-shores, nor shoals 
When Eolus scowls 
You need not fear ; 
So absolute the deep. 

And cheerfully at sea 
Success you still entice 
To get the pearl and gold, 
And ours to hold 
Earth's only paradise. 


Where nature hath in store 
Fowl, venison, and fish, 
And the fruitfull'st soil 
Without your toil 
Three harvests more, 

All greater than your wish. 

And the ambitious vine 

Crowns with his purple mass 
The cedar reaching high 
To kiss the sky, 
The cypress, pine, 
And useful sassafras. 

To whom the Golden Age 
Still nature's laws doth give, 
No other cares attend, 
But them to defend 
From winter's rage, 

That long there doth not live. 

When as the luscious smell 
Of that delicious land 
Above the seas that flows 
The clear wind throws, 
Your hearts to swell 

Approaching the dear strand ; 

In kenning of the shore 
(Thanks to God first given) 
you the happiest men, 
Be frolic then ! 
Let cannons roar, 

Frighting the wide heaven. 


And in regions far, 

Such heroes bring ye forth 

As those from whom we came ; 
And plant our name 
Under that star 
Not known unto our North. 

And as there plenty grows 
Of laurel everywhere 
Apollo's sacred tree 
You it may see 
A poet's brows 

To crown, that may sing there. 

Thy Voyages attend 
Industrious Hakluyt, 

Whose reading shall inflame 
Men to seek fame, 
And much commend 
To after times thy wit. 

Michael Drayton. 



LISTEN to me, as when ye heard our father 
Sing long ago the song of other shores 
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather 
All your deep voices as ye pull your oars : 

Fair these broad meads these hoary woods are grand ; 
But we are exiles from our fathers' land. 

From the lone shieling of the misty island 

Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas- 
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, 
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides : 

Fair these broad meads these hoary woods are grand; 
But we are exiles from our fathers' land. 

We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley, 

Where 'tween, the dark hills creeps the small clear 


In arms around the patriarch banner rally, 
Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam : 
Fair these broad meads these hoary woods are grand; 
But we are exiles from our fathers' land. 

When the bold kindred, in the time long vanish'd, 

Conquer'd the soil and fortified the keep, 
No seer foretold the children would be banish'd, 
That a degenerate Lord might boast his sheep : 
Fair these broad meads these hoary woods are grand; 
But we are exiles from our fathers' land. 


Come foreign rage let Discord burst in slaughter ! 
then for clansman true, and stern claymore 
The hearts that would have given their blood like 

Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar : 

Fair these broad meads these hoary woods are grand ; 
But we are exiles from our fathers' land. 




0, MY Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the Deep. 
There's wine from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green : 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over hills, and through dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lighten'd through my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 


All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro, do I move, 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Eosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
J Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over dews, over sands, 
Will I fly for your weal : 

Your holy delicate white hands 
Shall girdle me with steel. 

At home in your emerald bowers, 
From morning's dawn till e'en, 


You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 

You'll think of me through daylight's hours 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

! the Erne shall run red, 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our head, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal and slogan-cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



WHEN all around their vigil keep 
The West's asleep, the West's asleep, 
Alas ! and well may Erin weep 
That Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

For lake and plain smile fair and free 
Mid rocks, their guardian chivalry ; 
Sing oh ! let man learn liberty 
From crashing wind and slashing sea. 

For often in O'Connor's van 
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan, 
And fleet as deer the Normans ran 
Through Curlew's pass and Ardrahan. 

And later days saw deeds as brave 
And glory guards Clanrickarde's grave : 
Sing oh ! they died, their land to save 
On Augh rim's slopes and Shannon's wave. 

But if when all their vigil keep, 
The West's asleep, the West's asleep, 
Alas ! and well may Erin weep 
That Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

But hark ! a voice like thunder spake, 
The West's awake, the West's awake ! 
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake 
The West's awake, let England quake ! 

Thomas Davis* 



WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
I had, my Country ! am I to be blamed ? 
But when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
And I by my affection was beguiled. 
What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Pelt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

William Wordsvwrth. 



IT was a summer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done ; 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun, 

And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 


She saw her brother Peterkin 
Eoll something large and round, 

That he beside the rivulet, 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 


Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
3 Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, 
Who fell in the great victory. 



I find them in the garden, for 
There's many here about, 

And often when I go to plough, 
The ploughshare turns them out ; 

For many thousand men, said he, 

Were slain in the great victory. 

Now tell us what 'twas all about, 

Young Peterkin he cries, 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they kill'd each other for. 


It was the English, Kaspar cried, 
That put the French to rout ; 

But what they kill'd each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But everybody said, quoth he, 

That 'twas a famous victory. 


My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly : 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide, 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born infant, died. 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 


They say it was a shocking sight, 

After the field was won, 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene. 
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
Nay nay my little girl, quoth he, 
It was a famous victory. 


And everybody praised the Duke 

Who such a fight did win. 
But what good came of it at last ? 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
Why that I cannot tell, said he, 
But 'twas a famous victory. 

Robert Southey. 



THE Rhine is running deep and red, 

The island lies before 
" Now is there one of all the host 

Will dare to venture o'er ? 
For not alone the river's sweep 

Might make a brave man quail : 
They are on the farther side, 

Their shot comes fast as hail. 
God help us, if the middle isle 

"We may not hope to win ! 
Now is[there any of the host 

Will dare to venture in ? 

The ford is deep, the banks are steep, 

The island shore lies wide : 
Nor man nor horse could stem its force, 

Or'reach the farther side. 
See^there ! amidst the willow-boughs 

The serried bayonets gleam ; 
They've flung their bridge they've won the isle ; 

The!foe have crossed the stream ! 


Their volley flashes sharp and strong 

By all the Saints ! I trow 
There never yet was soldier born 

Could'force that passage now ! J> 


So spoke the bold French Mareschal 

With him who led the van, 
Whilst rough and red before their view 

The turbid river ran. 
Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross 

The wild and swollen Rhine, 
And thundering on the other bank 

Far stretched the German line. 
Hard by there stood a swarthy man 

Was leaning on his sword, 
And'a saddened smile lit up his face 

As he heard the Captain's word. 
" I've seen a wilder stream ere now 

Than that which rushes there ; 
I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet, 

And never thought to dare. 
If German steel be sharp and keen, 

Is ours not strong and true ? 
There may be danger in the deed, 

But there is honour too." 

The old lord in his saddle turned, 

And hastily he said 
" Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart 

Awakened from the dead? 
Thou art a leader of the Scots 

Now well and sure I know, 
That gentle blood in dangerous hour 

Ne'er yet ran cold nor slow, 
And I have seen ye in the fight 

Do all that mortal may : 
If honour is the boon ye seek, 

It may be won this day 


The prize is in the middle isle. 
There lies the adventurous way. 

And armies twain are on the plain, 
The daring deed to see 

Now ask the gallant company 
If they will follow thee ! " 

Right gladsome looked the Captain then, 

And nothing did he say, 
But he turned him to his little band- 

few, I ween, were they ! 
The relics of the bravest force 

That ever fought in fray. 
No one of all that company 

But bore a gentle name, 
Not one whose fathers had not stood 

In Scotland's fields of fame. 
All they had marched with great Dundee 

To where he fought and fell, 
And in the deadly battle-strife 

Had venged their leader well ; 
And they had bent the knee to earth 

When every eye was dim, 
As o'er their hero's buried corpse 

They sang the funeral hymn ; 
And they had trod the Pass once more, 

And stooped on either side 
To pluck the heather from the spot 

Where he had dropped and died ; 
And they had bound it next. their hearts, 

And ta'en a last farewell 
Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky, 

Where Scotland's glory fell. 


Then went they forth to foreign lands 

Like bent and broken men, 
Who leave their dearest hope behind, 

And may not turn again. 
" The stream," he said, " is broad and deep, 

And stubborn is the foe- 
Yon island-strength is guarded well 

Say, brothers, will ye go ? 
From home and kin for many a year 

Our steps have wandered wide, 
And never may our bones be laid 

Our fathers' graves beside. 
No children have we to lament, 

No wives to wail our fall ; 
The traitor's and the spoiler's hand 

Have reft our hearths of all. 
But we have hearts, and we have arms, 

As strong to will and dare 
As when our ancient banners flew 

Within the northern air. 
Come, brothers ! let me name a spell 

Shall rouse your souls again, 
And send the old blood bounding free 

Through pulse, and heart, and vein. 
Call back the days of bygone years 

Be young and strong once more ; 
Think yonder stream so stark and red 

Is one we've crossed before. 
Kise, hill and glen ! rise, crag and wood ! 

Rise up on either hand 
Again upon the Garry's banks 

On Scottish soil we stand ! 
Again I see the tartans wave, 


Again the trumpets ring ; 
Again I hear our leader's call 

c Upon them for the King ! ' 
Stayed we behind that glorious day 

For roaring flood or linn ? 
The soul of Graeme is with us still 

Now, brothers ! will ye in ? " 

No stay no pause. With one accord 

They grasped each other's hand, 
Then plunged into the angry flood, 

That bold and dauntless band. 
High flew the spray above their heads, 

Yet onward still they bore, 
Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, 

And shot, and cannon-roar 
" Now, by the Holy Cross ! I swear, 

Since earth and sea began, 
Was never such a daring deed 

Essayed by mortal man ! n 

Thick blew the smoke across the stream, 

And faster flashed the flame : 
The water plashed in hissing jets 

As ball and bullet came. 
Yet onwards pushed the Cavaliers 

All stern and undismayed, 
With thousand armed foes before, 
And none behind to aid. 
Once, as they neared the middle stream, 

So strong the torrent swept, 
That scarce that long and living wall 

Their dangerous footing kept. 


Then rose a warning cry behind, 

A joyous shout before : 
u The current's strong the way is long 

They'll never reach the shore ! 
See, see ! they stagger in the midst, 

They waver in their line ! 
Fire on the madmen ! break their ranks, 

And whelm them in the Rhine ! }) 

Have you seen the tall trees swaying 

When the blast is sounding shrill, 
And the whirlwind reels in fury 

Down the gorges of the hill ; 
How they toss their mighty branches, 

Struggling with the tempest's shock ; 
How they keep their place of vantage, 

Cleaving firmly to the rock ? 
Even so the Scottish warriors 

Held their own against the river ; 
Though the water flashed around them, 

Not an eye was seen to quiver ; 
Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, 

Not a man relaxed his hold : 
For their hearts were big and thrilling 

With the mighty thoughts of old. 
One word was spoke among them, 

And through the ranks it spread 
" Remember our dead Claverhouse ! " 

Was all the Captain said. 
Then sternly bending forward, 

They wrestled on awhile, 
Until they cleared the heavy stream, 

Then rushed towards the isle. 


The German heart is stout and true, 

The German arm is strong ; 
The German foot goes seldom back 

Where armed foemen throng. 
But never had they faced in field 

So stern a charge before, 
And never had they felt the sweep 

Of Scotland's broad claymore. 
Not fiercer pours the avalanche 

Adown the steep incline, 
That rises o'er the parent-springs 

Of rough and rapid Rhine 
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven 

Than came the Scottish band 
Right up against the guarded trench, 

And o'er it sword in hand. 
In vain their leaders forward press 

They meet the deadly brand ! 

lonely island of the Rhine 

Where seed was never sown, 
What harvest lay upon thy sands, 

By those strong reapers thrown 1 
What saw the winter moon that night 

As, struggling through the rain, 
She poured a wan and fitful light 

On marsh, and stream, and plain ? 
A dreary spot with corpses strewn, 

And bayonets glistening round ; 
A broken bridge, a stranded boat, 

A bare and battered mound ; 
And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile 


That sent its quivering glare 
To tell the leaders of the host 
The conquering Scots were there ! 

And did they twine the laurel- wreath 

For those who fought so well ? 
And did they honour those who lived, 

And weep for those who fell ? 
What meed of thanks was given to them 

Let aged annals tell. 
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath 

Why crown the cup with wine "? 
It was not Frenchmen's blood that flowed 

So freely on the Rhine 
A stranger band of beggared men 

Had done the venturous deed : 
The glory was to France alone, 

The danger was their meed. 
And what cared they for idle thanks 

From foreign prince and peer ? 
What virtue had such honied words 

The exiled heart to cheer ? 
What mattered it that men should vaunt, 

And loud and fondly swear, 
That higher feat of chivalry 

Was never wrought elsewhere ? 
They bore within their breasts the grief 

That fame can never heal 
The deep, unutterable woe 

Which none save exiles feel. 
Their hearts were yearning for the land 

They ne'er might see again 
For Scotland's high and heathered hills, 


For mountain, loch, and glen 
For those who haply lay at rest 

Beyond the distant sea, 
Beneath the green and daisied turf 

Where they would gladly be ! 
Long years went by. The lonely isle 

In Rhine's impetuous flood 
Has ta'en another name from those 

Who bought it with their blood : 
And, though the legend does not live 

For legends lightly die 
The peasant, as he sees the stream 

In winter rolling by, 
And foaming o'er its channel-bed 

Between him and the spot 
Won by the warriors of the sword, 
Still calls that deep and dangerous ford 

The Passage of the Scot. 

William Edmonstone^Aytoun. 



LAST night, among his fellow roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place, 
Ambassador from Britain's crown 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord, or axe, or flame, 
He only knows, that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke, above his father's door, 

In grey soft eddyings hung : 
Must he then watch it rise no more, 

Doomed by himself, so young ? 


Yes, honour calls ! with strength like steel 

He put the vision by. 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent, 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; 

Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
Unless proud England keep, untamed, 

The strong heart of her sons. 
So, let his name through Europe ring 

A man of mean estate, 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 

Because his Soul was great. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, 

But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that 

can compare, 
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British 

Grenadier ! 

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, 

Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal ; 

But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their 

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 

Grenadiers ! 

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, 
Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand 


We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, 
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British 

Grenadiers ! 

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, 
The townsmen cry, * Hurrah, boys, here comes a 

Grenadier ! 
Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no 

doubts or fears ! ' 
Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British 

Grenadiers ! 


Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those 
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped 

May they and their commanders live happy all their 

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British 

Grenadiers ! 




ATTEND you, and give ear awhile, 

And you shall understand, 
Of a battle fought upon the seas 

By a ship of brave command. 
The fight it was so glorious 

Men's hearts it did fulfil, 
And it made them cry, ' To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel ! ' 

This lusty ship of Bristol 

Sailed out adventurously 
Against the foes of England, 

Her strength with them to try : 
Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, 

With good provision still, 
Which made men cry, < To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel I 1 

The Captain, famous Netherway 

(That was his noble name) : 
The Master he was called John Mines 

A mariner of fame : 
The gunner, Thomas Watson, 

A man of perfect skill : 
With many another valiant heart 

In the Angel Gabriel. 


They waving up and down the seas 

Upon the ocean main, 
* It is not long ago,' quoth they, 

' That England fought with Spain : 
would the Spaniard we might meet 

Our stomachs to fulfil ! 
We would play him fair a noble bout 

With our A ngel Gabriel ! ' 

They had no sooner spoken 

But straight appeared in sight 
Three lusty Spanish vessels 

Of warlike trim and might : 
With bloody resolution 

They thought our men to spill, 
And they vowed that they would make a prize 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

Our gallant ship had in her 

Full forty fighting men : 
With twenty piece of ordnance 

We played about them then, 
With powder, shot, and bullets 

Right well we worked our will, 
And hot and bloody grew the fight 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

Our Captain to our Master said, 

' Take courage, Master bold ! ' 
Our Master to the seamen said, 

' Stand fast, my hearts of gold ! ' 
Our gunner unto all the rest, 

4 Brave hearts, be valiant still ! 
Fight on, fight on in the defence 

Of our Angel Gabriel ! ' 


We gave them such a broadside, 

It smote their mast asunder, 
And tore the bowsprit off their ship, 

Which made the Spaniards wonder, 
And caused them in fear to cry, 

With voices loud and shrill, 
4 Help, help, or sunken we shall be 

By the Angel Gabriel /' 

So desperately they boarded us 

For all our valiant shot, 
Three score of their best fighting men 

Upon our decks were got ; 
And lo ! at their first entrances 

Full thirty did we kill, 
And thus we cleared with speed the deck 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

With that their three ships boarded us 

Again with might and main, 
But still our noble Englishmen 

Cried out, * A fig for Spain ! ' 
Though seven times they boarded us 

At last we showed our skill, 
And made them feel what men we were 

On the Angel Gabriel. 

Seven hours this fight continued : 

So many men lay dead, 
With Spanish blood for fathoms round 

The sea was coloured red. 
Five hundred of their fighting men 

We there outright did kill, 
And manv more were hurt and maimed 


By our Angel Gabriel. 



Then, seeing of these bloody spoils, 

The rest made haste away : 
For why, they said it was no boot 

The longer there to stay. 
Then they fled into Gales, 

Where lie they must and will 
For fear lest they should meet again 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

We had within our English ship 

But only three men slain, 
And five men hurt, the which I hope 

Will soon be well again. 
At Bristol we were landed, 

And let us praise God still, 
That this hath blest our lusty hearts 

And our Angel Gabriel. 





COME, all ye jolly sailors bold, 

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 

While English glory I unfold, 

Huzza for the Arethusa ! 
She is a frigate tight and brave, 
As ever stemmed the dashing wave ; 

Her men are staunch 

To their fav'rite launch, 
And when the foe shall meet our fire, 
Sooner than strike, we'll all expire 

On board of the Arethusa. 

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out 
The English Channel to cruise about, 
When four French sail, in show so stout, 

Bore down on the Arethusa. 
The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, 
The Arethusa seemed to fly. 

Not a sheet, or a tack, 

Or a brace, did she slack ; 

Though the Frenchmen laughed and thought it stuff, 
But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, 

On board of the Arethusa. 

On deck five hundred men did dance, 
The stoutest they could find in France ; 
We with two hundred did advance 
On board of the Arethusa. 


Our captain hailed the Frenchman, ' Ho ! ' 
The Frenchman then cries out ' Hallo ! ' 

'Bear down, d'ye see, 

To our Admiral's lee ! ' 

' No, no,' says the Frenchman, * that can't be ! ' 
Then I must lug you along with me,' 

Says the saucy Arethusa. 

The fight was off the Frenchman's land, 
We forced them back upon their strand, 
For we fought till not a stick could stand 

Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we've driven the foe ashore 
Never to fight with Britons more, 

Let each fill his glass 

To his fav'rite lass : 

A health to our captain and officers true, 
And all that belong to the jovial crew 

On board of the Arethusa. 

Prince Hoare. 



THE captain stood on the carronade : * First lieutenant,' 

says he, 
' Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list 

to me ; 
I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons because Fm bred 

to the sea ; 
That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight 

with we, 
And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've 

been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds but I've gained the 

victory ! 

' That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take 


J Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we ; 
I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys : so each man to 

his gun : 
If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each 

mother's son. 
For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've 

been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds and I've gained the 

victory ! ' 


We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman 

had enough ; 
' I little thought,' said he, c that your men were of such 

stuff' ; 
Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow 

made to he ; 
' I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I 

wish to be. 
And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've 

been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds and I've gained the 

victory ! ' 

Our captain sent for all of us : 'My merry men,' said he, 

' I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thank- 
ful be : 

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to 
his gun ; 

If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have 

flogged each mother's son. 
For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm 

at sea, 
I'll fight 'gainst every odds and I'll gain the 

victory ! ' 

Frederick Marryat. 

SONG 135 



To all you ladies now on land, 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write ; 
The Muses now, and Neptune too, 

We must implore to write to you. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

For though the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen and ink, and we 

Roll up and down our ship at sea. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

Then, if we write not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind ; 
Nor yet. conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchman or by wind : 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way, 

The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

The King with wonder and surprise, 

Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
Because the tides will higher rise, 

Than e'er they did of old ; 


But let him know it is our tears 

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story ; 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe 

And quit their fort at Goree, 
For what resistance can they find 

From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

Let wind and weather do its worst, 

Be you to us but kind, 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 

No sorrows shall we find, 
Tis then no matter how things go 

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

To pass our tedious hours away, 

We throw a merry main ; 
Or else at serious ombre play. 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue 1 

We were undone when we left you. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow, 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play ; 
Perhaps, permit some happier man 

To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

SONG 137 

When any mournful tune you hear, 

That dies at every note ; 
As if it sigh'd with each man's care, 

For being so remote ; 
Think how often love we've made 

To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

In justice you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress, 
When we for hopes of honour lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All these designs are but to prove 

Ourselves were worthy of your love. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears, 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity from your tears ; 
Let's hear of no inconstancy, 

We have too much of that at sea. 
With a fa, la, la la la. 

Charles Sackwlle, Earl of Dorset. 



A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true ; 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when ? 

And shall Trelawny die 1 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 

Out spake their captain brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
' If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

We'll set Trelawny free ! 

* Well cross the Tamar, land to land, 

The Severn is no stay, 
With " one and all," and hand in hand, 

And who shall bid us nay ? 

4 And when we come to London Wall, 

A pleasant sight to view, 
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all, 

Here's men as good as you ! 

1 Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die : 
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold, 

Will know the reason why ! ' 

Robert Stephen Hawker. 



WHO is the happy "Warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate : 
Is placable because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 


'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 

He labours good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

Who, if he rise to station of command, 

Kises by open means ; and there will stand 

On honourable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself possess his own desire ; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all ; 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 

Come when it will, is equal to the need ; 

He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 


To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve ; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value must be won : 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stands fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last, 

From well to better, daily self-surpast ; 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead unprofitable name 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 

This is the happy Warrior ; this is he 

That every man in arms should wish to be. 

William Wordsworth. 




REVELE to me the sacred noursery 
Of vertue, which with you doth there reinaine, 
Where it in silver bowre does hidden lie 
From view of men, and wicked worlds disdaine : 
Since it at first was by the gods with paine 
Planted in earth, being derived at f urst 
From heavenly seedes of bounty soveraine, 
And by them long with careful labour nurst, 
Till it to ripeness grew, and forth to honour burst. 

Amongst them all growes not a fayrer flowre 
Then is the bloosme of comely courtesie ; 
Which though it on a lowly stalke doe bowre, 
Yet brancheth forth in brave nobilitie, 
And speeds it selfe through all civilitie : 
Of which though present age doe plenteous seeme, 
Yetj being matcht with plaine Antiquitie, 
Ye will with them all but fayned showes esteeme, 
Which carry colours faire that feeble eyes misdeeme. 

But in the trials of true courtesie 
Its now so farre from that which then it was, 
That it indeed is nought but forgerie, 
Fashion'd to please the eies of them that pas, 
Which see not perfect things but in a glas : 


Yet is that glasse so gay, that it can blynd 
The wisest sight to thinke gold that is bras ; 
But vertues seat is deepe within the mynd, 
And not in outward shows, but inward thoughts 

But where shall I in all Antiquitye 
So faire a patterne finde, where may be seene 
The goodly praise of Princely curtesie, 
As in your selfe, soveraine Lady Queene 1 
In whose pure minde, as in a mirror sheene, 
It showes, and with her brightness doth inflame 
The eyes of all which thereon fixed beene, 
But meriteth indeede an higher name : 
Yet so from low to high uplifted is your fame. 

Then pardon me, most dreaded Soveraine, 
That from your selfe I doe this vertue bring, 
And to your selfe doe it returne againe. 
So from the Ocean all rivers spring, 
And tribute backe repay as to their King : 
Right so from you all goodly vertues well 
Into the rest which round about you ring, 
Faire Lords and Ladies which about you dwell, 
And doe adorne your Court where courtesies excell. 

Edmund Spenser. 




BRIGHT and majestic Spirit ! faithful mate 
Of all true Virtue, and that generous Fame 
Which guards a spotless, seeks a glorious name 
From Love not Pride ; but seeks content to wait, 
And prompt to share it Angel of the State ! 
Sanctioning Order with religious awe ; 
Taking the harshness and the sting from Law, 
Scorn from the lowly, envy from the great ; 
Come to this region of thine ancient sway ! 
With thine heroic and inspiring smile 
Illume our perils and our fears beguile ! 
Was it not here that Alfred built his throne, 
And high-souled Sydney waived a throne away ? 
The land is strong which thou hast made thine own. 

Aubrey de Vere. 



ELEVEN men of England 

A breastwork charged in vain ; 
Eleven men of England 

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. 
Slain ; but of foes that guarded 

Their rock-built fortress well, 
Some twenty had been mastered, 

When the last soldier fell. 

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way 

Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, 
Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, 

Lord of their wild Truckee. 
These missed the glen to which their steps were bent 

Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, 
And, in that glorious error, calmly went 

To death without a word. 

The robber-chief mused deeply 

Above those daring dead ; 
4 Bring here,' at length he shouted, 

1 Bring quick, the battle thread 
Let Eblis blast for ever 

Their souls, if Allah will : 
But we must keep unbroken 

The old rules of the Hill. 


Before the Ghiznee tiger 

Leapt forth to burn and slay ; 
Before the holy Prophet 

Taught our grim tribes to pray ; 
Before Secunder's lances 

Pierced through each Indian glen ; 
The mountain laws of honour 

Were framed for fearless men. 

Still, when a chief dies bravely, 

We bind with green one wrist 
Green for the brave, for heroes 

ONE crimson thread we twist. 
Say ye, gallant hillmen, 

For these, whose life has fled, 
Which is the fitting colour, 

The green one or the red ? ' 

1 Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear 
Their green reward, 3 each noble savage said ; 

' To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, 
Who dares deny the red ? ' 

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, 
Fresh from the heart their haughty verdict came ; 

Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height 
Rolled back its loud acclaim. 

Once more the chief gazed keenly 

Down on those daring dead ; 
From his good sword their heart's blood 

Crept to that crimson thread. 
Once more he cried, * The judgment, 

Good friends, is wise and true, 
Bat though the red be given, 

Have we not more to do ? 


* These were not stirred by anger, 

Nor yet by lust made bold ; 
Renown they thought above them, 

Nor did they look for gold. 
To them their leader's signal 

"Was as the voice of God : 
Unmoved, and uncomplaining, 

The path it showed they trod. 

' As, without sound or struggle, 

The stars unhurrying march, 
Where Allah's finger guides them, 

Through yonder purple arch, 
These Franks, sublimely silent, 

Without a quickened breath, 
Went in the strength of duty 

Straight to their goal of death. 

' If I were now to ask you 

To name our bravest man, 
Ye all at once would answer, 

Thev called him Mehrab Khan. 


He sleeps among his fathers, 

Dear to our native land, 
With the bright mark he bled for 

Firm round his faithful hand. 

' The songs they sing of Rustum 

Fill all the past with light ; 
If truth be in their music, 

He was a noble knight. 
But were those heroes living 

And strong for battle still, 
Would Mehrab Khan or Rustum 

Have climbed, like these, the hill ? ' 


And they replied, ' Though Mehrab Khan was brave, 
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run ; 

Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, 
Which these had never done.' 

' Enough ! ' he shouted fiercely ; 

' Doomed though they be to hell, 
Bind fast the crimson trophy 

Round BOTH wrists bind it well. 
Who knows but that great Allah 

May grudge such matchless men, 
With none so decked in heaven, 

To the fiends' flaming den 1 ' 

Then all those gallant robbers 

Shouted a stern ' Amen ! ' 
They raised the slaughtered sergeant, 

They raised his mangled ten. 
And when we found their bodies 

Left bleaching in the wind, 
Around BOTH wrists in glory 

That crimson thread was twined. 

The Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, 
Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed, 

He bade its memory live for evermore, 
That those who run may read. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



YE gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease, 
Ah ! little do you think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly shew 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us 

When England is at war 
With any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar ; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valour for to know, 
Whilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 

And never be dismay'd ; 
While we have bold adventurers, 

We ne'er shall want a trade : 
Our merchants will employ us 

To fetch them wealth, we know ; 
Then be bold work for gold, 

When the stormy winds do blow 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Martyn Parker. 



EPFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, 

Here's to the bold and free ! 
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, 

Hail to the Kings of the Sea ! 
Admirals all, for England's sake, 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Admirals all, for England's sake, 
Honour be yours and fame ! 

And honour, as long as waves shall break. 
To Nelson's peerless name ! * 

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay 

With the galleons fair in sight ; 
Howard at last must give him his way, 

And the word was passed to fight. 
Never was schoolboy gayer than he, 

Since holidays first began : 
He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, 

And under the guns he ran. 

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, 

Their cities he put to the sack : 
He singed His Catholic Majesty's beard, 

And harried his ships to wrack. 
He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls 

When the great Armada came ; 


But he said, ' They must wait their turn, good souls,' 
And he stooped, and finished the game. 

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, 

Duncan he had but two ; 
But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled 

And his colours aloft he flew. 
' Pre taken the depth to a fathom,' he cried, 

4 And I'll sink with a right good will, 
For I know when we're all of us under the tide 

My flag will be fluttering still.' 

Splinters were flying above, below, 

When Nelson sailed the Sound : 
' Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now,' 

Said he, 4 for a thousand pound ! ' 
The Admiral's signal bade him fly, 

But he wickedly wagged his head, 
He clapped the glass to his sightless eye 

And ' I'm damned if I see it,' he said. 

Admirals all, they said their say, 

(The echoes are ringing still), 
Admirals all, they went their way 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But they left us a kingdom none can take, 

The realm of the circling sea, 
To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake 

And the Kodneys yet to be. 

Admirals all, for England's sake, 

Honour be yours and fame ! 
And honour, as long as waves shall break, 

To Nelson's peerless name ! 

Henry Newbolt. 



OF Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence deep as death, 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 

But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between : 

* Hearts of oak ! ' our captains cried, when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 


Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 

Then ceased and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail, 

Or in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 

' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : 

So peace instead of death let us bring : 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.' . . . 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ! 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



IN seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, 
When Hawke came swooping from the West, 

The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line, 
Was sailing forth, to sack us, out of Brest. 

The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France 

With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum, 

For bragging time was over and fighting time was come 
When Hawke came swooping from the West. 

'Twas long past noon of a wild November day 

When Hawke came swooping from the West ; 
He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay, 

But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast. 
Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight 
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night, 
But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare 

for light 
When Hawke came swooping from the West. 

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind 
When Hawke came swooping from the West ; 

One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned, 
And the shallows and the storm took the rest. 

HAWKE 155 

The guns that should have conquered us they rusted 

on the shore, 
The men that would have mastered us they drummed 

and marched no more, 

For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore 
When Hawke came swooping from the West. 

Henry Newbolt. 



WHEN George the Third was reigning a hundred years 


He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. 
1 You're not afraid of shot,' said he, ' you're not afraid 

of wreck, 
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate 

called Quebec. 

1 Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty 

years ago 
King George the Second sent a man called General 

Wolfe, you know, 

To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, 
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the 


' If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can 

beat them now. 

Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow, 
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, 
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall 

do the same.' 

Then Farmer said, Til try,sir,'and Farmer bowed so low 
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. 
George gave him his commission, and that it might be 

Signed ' King of Britain, King of France,' and sealed 

it with a wafer. 


Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, 
And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon the 


He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, 
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score 


And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace 

of dogs, 

With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. 
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to 

She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on 

her keel. 

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with 

melting tar, 

The lad up in the f oretop sees square white sails afar ; 
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from 

out the Breton bay, 
And ' Clear for action ! ' Farmer shouts, and reefers 

yell ' Hooray ! ' 

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could 

pronounce ; 
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from 


One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine 
For honour and the fleurs-de-lys and Antoinette the 


The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, 
Each Captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths 
could forge ; 


And both were simple seamen, but both could under- 

How each was bound to win or die for flag and native 

The French ship was la Surveillante, which means the 

watchful maid ; 

She folded up her head-dress, and began to cannonade. 
Her hull was clean, and ours was foul, we had to spread 

more sail. 
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets carne 

like hail. 

Sore smitten were both Captains, and many lads beside, 
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. 
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing 

We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the 

Frenchman won. 

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow ; 
Men hung upon the taffrail, half-scorched but loth to go ; 
Our Captain sat where once he stood, and would not 

quit his chair. 
He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him 

bleeding there. 

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen 

lowered boats, 
They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything 

that floats ; 
They risked their lives, good fellows ! to bring their 

rivals aid. 
'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely 



La Surveillante was like a sieve ; the victors had no 

They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of 

And where the waves leapt lower, and the riddled ship 

went slower, 
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to 

tow her. 

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for 

Farmer dead ; 
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed 

the head. 
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that 

won, not we. 
* You never struck your flag to us ; you'll go to England 


'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred 


A year when nations ventured against us to combine, 
Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remembered 

not ; 
But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not 


Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, 

bear in mind 

Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind ; 
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to 

And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a 


William Cory. 



IT was eight bells ringing, 

For the morning watch was done, 
And the gunner's lads were singing 

As they polished every gun. 
It was eight bells ringing, 
And the gunner's lads were singing, 
For the ship she rode a-swinging, 
As they polished every gun. 

Oh ! to see the linstock lighting, 

Temeraire ! Temeraire ! 
Oh ! to hear the round-shot biting, 

Temeraire ! Temeraire ! 
Oh ! to see the linstock lighting, 
And to hear the round-shot biting, 
For we're all in love with fighting, 
On the Fighting Temeraire. 

It was noontide ringing, 
And the battle just begun, 

When the ship her way was winging, 
As they loaded every gun. 

It was noontide ringing 

When the ship her way was winging, 

And the gunner's lads were singing 
As they loaded every gun. 


There'll be many grim and gory, 

Temeraire ! Temeraire ! 
There'll be few to tell the story, 

Temeraire I Temeraire ! 
There'll be many grim and gory, 
There'll be few to tell the story, 
But we'll all be one in glory 

With the Fighting Temeraire. 

There's a far bell ringing 

At the setting of the sun, 
And a phantom voice is singing 

Of the great days done. 
There's a far bell ringing, 
And a phantom voice is singing 
Of renown for ever clinging 

To the great days done. 

Now the sunset breezes shiver, 
Temeraire ! Temeraire ! 
And she's fading down the river, 

Tdmtfraire I Temeraire ! 
Now the sunset breezes shiver, 
And she's fading down the river, 
But in England's song for ever 
She's the Fighting Temeraire. 

Henry Newbolt. 




THE winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, 

The sky was black and drear, 

When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship 
without a name 

Alongside the last Buccaneer. 

4 Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, 
When all others drive bare on the seas ? 

Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, 
Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees ? ' 

4 From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no 
line can sound, 

Without rudder or needle we steer ; 
Above, below, our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, 

As we fly by the last Buccaneer. 

'To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape 

de Verde 

A loud crash and a louder roar ; 
And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning 

The corpses and wreck to the shore.' 

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride 

In the breadth of the citron shades ; 
And Severn's towering mast securely now lies fast, 

Through the seas of the balmy Trades. 


From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal 

The seaman goes forth without fear ; 
For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight 

Of the flag of the last Buccaneer. 

Thomas Bdbington, Lord Macaulay. 




21 OCTOBER, 187*. 

IN grappled ships around the Victory, 

Three boys did England's Duty with stout cheer, 
While one dread truth was kept from every ear, 

More dire than deafening fire that churned the sea 

For in the flagship's weltering cockpit, he 
Who was the Battle's Heart without a peer, 
He who had seen all fearful sights save Fear, 

Was passing from all life save Victory. 

And round the old memorial board to-day, 

Three greybeards each a warworn British Tar- 
View through the mist of years that hour afar : 
Who soon shall greet, 'mid memories of fierce fray, 
The impassioned soul which on its radiant way 
Soared through the fiery cloud of Trafalgar. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



OCTOBER, 1803 

VANGUARD of liberty, ye men of Kent ! 

Ye children of a soil that doth advance 

Its haughty brow against the coast of France, 
Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
To France be words of invitation sent ! 

They from their fields can see the countenance 

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance, 
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, 

Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath : 
Confirm'd the charters that were yours before. 

No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
We all are with you now from shore to shore : 

Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death ! 

William Wordsworth. 



I LOVE contemplating, apart 

From all his homicidal glory, 
The traits that soften to our heart 

Napoleon's story ! 

' Twas when his banners at Boulogne 
Arm'd in our island every freeman, 

His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffer'd him I know not how 
Unprison'd on the shore to roam ; 

And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
Of birds to Britain half-way over ; 

With envy they could reach the white 
Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 
Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 

If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banish'd sleep, 

He saw one morning dreaming doating, 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating ; 


He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
The livelong day laborious ; lurking 

Until he launch'd a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description wretched : such a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, 
Or cross'd a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt sea-field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder ; 

Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, 
No sail no rudder. 

From neighbouring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; 

And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd 
The foaming billows 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 

His little Argo sorely jeering ; 
Till tidings of him chanced to reach 

Napoleon's hearing. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger ; 

And in his wonted attitude, 
Address'd the stranger : 

' Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd ; 

Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassion'd. 1 


* I have no sweetheart, 5 said the lad ; 

4 But absent long from one another 
Great was the longing that I had 
To see my mother ! ' 

* And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, 

' Ye've both my favour fairly won ; 
A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son.' 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 
And with a flag of truce commanded 

He should be shipp'd to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
To find a dinner plain and hearty ; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THERE was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet 
But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 


His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips ' The foe ! They 
come ! they come ! ' 

And wild and high the ' Cameron's gathering ' rose, 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 


And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent ! 

George Gordon, Lord Byron. 





THEN there rise upon my view 
Those gray flats of Waterloo, 
Where the red men met the blue 
Like a wall ; 

Legions flashing in the sun, 
Sabre clash, and vollied gun, 
Till the world our Wellesley won 
From the Gaul. 

Then the clarions gave their peal, 
Then the wrestling squadrons reel, 
Silent in their ranks of steel 
Soldiers bled. 

Then, as clouds of gathering night, 
Blucher's morions massed the height, 
And the tyrant at the sight 
Turned and fled. 

Over faces of the slain, 

Through the cannon-cumbered plain, 

Ah, he never turned again 

To his dead ! 

All his retinue of kings 
Melt on panic-stricken wings, 
While his dying trooper sings 


Mighty Captain, King of Rome, 
Mourn thine eagles stamped in loam, 
Rifled barn and ruined home, 
Ricks ablaze. 

Fly by sacked and burning farms^ 
Fly by riddled windmills 3 arms, 
In the nightmare and alarms, 
Of thy pride. 

By the endless poplar lines, 
By the trampled corn and vines, 
In the crash of great designs 
Let him ride. 

John Leicester Warren, Lord de 



1 French disappointment, British glory, 
Must be the subject of the story? 

IBERIA, trembling from afar, 
Renounces the confederate war ; 
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome, 
France calls her shattered navies home ; 
Repenting Holland learns to mourn 
The sacred treaties she has torn ; 
Astonishment and awe profound 
Are stamped upon the nations round ; 
Without one friend, above all foes, 
Britannia gives the world repose. 

William Cowper. 



OUR bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf -scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

4 Stay, stay with us : rest, thou art weary and worn. 5 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell. 



BEAT ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 
Through the windows through doors burst like a 

ruthless force, 

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, 
Into the school where the scholar is studying ; 
Leave not the bridegroom quiet no happiness now 

must he have with his bride. 
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field 

or gathering his grain, 
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums so shrill 

you bugles blow. 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Over the traffic of cities over the rumble of wheels 
in the streets ; 

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses ? 
no sleepers must sleep in those beds, 

No bargainers bargain by day no brokers or specu- 
lators would they continue ? 

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer 
attempt to sing ? 

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case 
before the judge ? 

Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums you bugles, 
wilder blow. 


Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Make no parley stop for no expostulation, 

Mind not the timid mind not the weeper and prayer, 

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, 

Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's 

Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they 

lie awaiting the hearses, 
So strong you thump you terrible drums so loud you 

bugles blow. 

Walt Whitman. 





' In their death they vjere not divided.' 

1 FOR victory ! no, all hope is gone ; for life ! let that 

go too ; 
But for the Colours still work on the chance is left 

with you. 
I know to share our death with us ye both desire to 

But these are my last orders Mount ! and with them 

force your way.' 

On Coghill and on Melvill thus these last commands 

were laid ; 
They left the Colonel where he stood, and without 

words obeyed. 
In silence, then, that steadfast pair moved onward 

side by side, 
And lifting with its staff the Flag began their ghastly 


Watched through that wild and whirling fight, through 

wreaths of eddying smoke, 
Their horses ridden hard and straight, on those bold 

foemen broke ; 
Amid the dark lines plunging deep, their blades flashed 

back the light, 
And then, like divers in the sea, they both are hid from 




But now we know they died not there, for rising up 

once more, 
Through the rough battle-tide they beat, alive, though 

wounded sore ; 
The red drops fell like falling rain, but still their 

steeds were swift ; 
And hope is strong within them as they gallop for the 


O'er grinning boulders guided safe, forced through 

fierce tufts of thorn, 
Then dashing like a torrent down the path by torrents 

worn ; 
Well handled in that fearful race, and never slackening 

The chargers struggle gallantly, nor fail them at their 


In vain the dusky giants spread all over that rough 

ground ; 
With cruel eyes and glittering teeth, like panthers leap 

around ; 
Melvill's skilled bridle-hand is there, and Coghill's 

hovering sword ; 
A new escape each stride, but still, they foil that 

furious horde. 

Till toiling, through the reed-beds dank, and up the 

wild ravine, 
They gain the open hill-top whence the longed-for 

Drift is seen. 

Alas ! the rifles flash and ring alas ! like billows roll 
Besieging masses to and fro between them and their 



The last frail chance they feel is gone, and turn at 

once aside : 
But turn without despairing, since not for themselves 

they ride. 
Beyond the flood, a furlong's breadth, the land is 

English land, 
And they must bear our Colours there, though in a 

dying hand. 

They plunge and swirn, the stream runs on runs dark 

with priceless gore, 
But that high purpose in the heart lends life, and 

something more ; 
For though their best blood mingle with the rain-swelled 

river's foam, 
Death has no power to stop them till they bring their 

Colours home. 

Death had not power to stop them. No ! when through 

spates rolling dim, 
Melvill, half -drowned, cried out aloud to help the Flag 

not him, 
When Coghill, crippled and outworn, retreading that 

grim track, 
A martyr in war's noble faith, to certain fate rode back 

They had, it might be thought, to die, leaving their 

work half done, 

But aids unseen rose up to end the task so well begun ; 
It was as if the intense desire through earth, air, water 

Passed from them with their passing, souls, and home 

the Colours brought. 


Those Colours, save for happier days, and armed with 

that desire, 
Shall feel the last breath of the dead thrill through 

their folds like fire ; 
And by the spirit-memories of that bold ride made 

O'er many a battle-field in power shall yet be borne 


But those who shielded them from shame, and through 

fierce thousands made 
A passage for them with their blood, are in one silence 

laid ; 
Silence between the strife and them, between them and 

the cheers 
That greet the Flag returning slow, the welcome and 

the tears. 

For now, forgetting that wild ride, forgetful of all pain 
High amongst those who have not lived, who have not 

died in vain, 
By strange stars watched, they sleep afar, within some 

nameless glen, 
Beyond the tumult and the noise, beyond the praise of 


But we who feel what wealth of hope for ever there 

was lost, 
What bitter sorrow burns for them, how dear those 

Colours cost, 

Can but recall the sad old truth, so often said and sung, 
That brightest lives fade first that those whom the 

gods love die young. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



WHEN slow and faint from off the plain 

Pale wrecks of sword and gun, 
Torn limbs, and faces racked with pain, 

Crept upwards, one by one ; 
When, striving as the hopeless strive, 

Ascare with shot and flame, 
Few pallid riders came alive, 

And marvelled as they came ; 

Dared any, while with corpses rife 

Ked gleamed the ghastly track, 
Ride, for the love of more than life, 

Into the valley back 1 
Pierce, where the bravest tarried not, 

Stand, where the strongest fell, 
Face once again the surge of shot, 

The plunging hail of shell ? 

He trod of old the hill we tread, 

He played the games we play ; 
The part of him that is not dead 

Belongs to us to-day ; 
When next the stranger scans the wall 

Where carved our heroes are, 
Wits poets statesmen show them all, 

And then, the one hussar. 


He sought his chief a dim reply 

From waving hand was brought ; 
1 Passed on ' to safety, meant the cry ; 

Amid the guns, he thought ; 
No question more ; in purpose clear 

His soldier's creed was strong ; 
Where rode, he knew, the brigadier, 

Must ride the aide-de-camp ! 

He tossed his horse's bridle round, 

Ere one could breathe a breath, 
And fronted, as a practice ground, 

The nearest way to death. 
In pride of manhood's ripest spring, 

Hopes high, and honour won, 
He deemed his life a little thing, 

And rode, a soldier, on. 

Up, slow, the homeward remnant flew, 

Staggered, and fell, and ran ; 
Down moved, through flying and through dead, 

One hopeless, splendid man ; 
Alone, unrocked in heat of fray, 

He stemmed the wave of flight, 
And passed in smoke and flame away 

From safety and from sight. 

So ends the story ; comrade none 

Saw where he wounded lay ; 
No brother helped with cheering tone 

His stricken life away ; 
Alone, the pain, the chill, the dread, 

Crept on him, limb by limb ; 
The earth, which hides the nameless dead, 

Closed nameless over him. 


soldiers of a bloodless strife, 
friends in work and play, 

Bear we not all a coward life 
Some moment in the day ? 

So, lest a deed of gallant faith 
Forgotten fade from view, 

1 take the tale of LOCKWOOD'S death, 
And write it down for you. 

Edward E. Bowen. 




HALF a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred . 

' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 


' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
Was there a man dismay'd 1 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 


Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 
Volley'd and thunder'd ; 


Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 


Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder 'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade ? 
the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made ! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



THIN glancing threads of English horse, 
Why do your haughty trumpets wake ? 

Through yon grey myriads, massed in force, 
None but the mad could hope to break ! 

1 Men may be mad, or men be wise, 
But not with us the question lies ; 
Although we guess not their intent, 

This one thing well we know, 
That, where the Light Brigade is sent, 
The Light Brigade will go.' 

What need to tell 

Of splintering shell, 
Of cannon-shot, and rifle-ball 1 
The death-hail smites them, one and all, 
Through smoke that wraps them like a pall, 
As raindrops, each and each, they fall. 

Horse rolls o'er horse, 

Corse hideth corse, 
The gaps grow wide, and wider, 

Deep-wounded men 

Crawl back agen ; 
Steeds rush without a rider : 
But still against the wondering foe, 
In stubborn silence forward go 
Unchecked, unslackening, undismayed, 
The living of the Light Brigade, 


Till that wild onset over-bears 

The guns in front, one moment theirs. 

Sudden and sharp the halt is made, 

They seem, in mute reproach, to say, 
1 Your orders have been now obeyed, 

As far as in us lay ; 

Yours are these guns, with life-blood red. 
But can ye hold them by the dead 1 ' 
Meanwhile the cannon, from each hill, 
Keep showering slaughter on them still, 

All paths with death are lined ; 
Dense columns bar their onward course, 
And long blue streaks of Russian horse, 

Like nets, are spread behind. 
That shattered remnant pauses there, 

Blown chargers, wounded men : 
Oh ! they will break, like yielding air 

And who shall blame them then 
Not so through that bewildered throng 
Like fire the leaders glance along 
From rank to rank ; too far to hear, 
We seem to feel an English cheer ; 
Whilst Fancy, from each blade waved high, 
Each gesture fierce, and flashing eye, 
Can proud words, such as these, supply : 
* Gather ye, gather ye, close up once more ! 
Swords red to the wristband, hearts steel to the core, 
Lance, sabre, and carbine, dragoon and Cossack, 
Are strong to the sight, but they dare not attack ; 
No cutting, give point, were they twenty to one, 
Men who wait to be charged, when we gallop, will run ! ' 
They gather, they gather, they close up once more, 
Swords red to the wristband, hearts steel to the core, 


Though wide wounds may weaken, though horses may 


They have pace enough left for a dash at the foe ; 
Then, as hawks might swoop down through the toils 

of a spider, 

Right at the blue line goes each horse and his rider. 
It is rent like a rag, burst like bubbles asunder, 
Whilst down from each height roars redoubled the 

thunder ; 
Still unstayed and unbroken, they cut their way 


Past spears that outflank them, from swords that pursue. 
With cannon and riflemen hot on their track, 
Destroyed, but unconquered, we welcome them back : 
Not a man in that death-charge his chief hath forsaken, 
And the guns which ye flung them at were they not 

taken ? 

And though, beneath yon fatal hill, 

Their dead the valley strew, 
Grimly, with cold hands, clutching still 

The broken swords they drew, 
We will not call their lives ill spent, 

If to all time they show, 
That where the Light Brigade was sent, 

The Light Brigade would go. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 






Of the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who fell 
gloriously at Alma, 20th September, 1854 

'There lay Colonel Chester, and four of his gallant officers, with 
their faces to the sky.' Morning Paper. 
1 He had gone right up to the gun.' Private letter, 

WHEN, from grim Alma's bloodstain'd height, 

There came the sound of woe, 
And in thy first and latest fight 

That noble head was low : 
As those who loved and trembled, knew 
That all their darkest fears were true ; 
Each fond heart, clinging to the dead, 
Felt fiery thirst within it burn 
A restless throbbing hope to learn 
How in those hours, each gloomy thread of waning life 
was spun. 

And yearnings from thine English home 
Bounded across the ocean foam : 

' Where did ye find my son 1 ' 
The answer, from that fatal ground, 
Came pealing, with a trumpet sound, 

4 Close to the Russian gun, 
With many a gallant friend around him, 
In one proud death, 'twas thus we found him. 


He lay, where dense the war-cloud hung, 

Where corpse on corpse was thickest flung 

Just as a British soldier should ; 
The sword he drew, 
Still pointing true 

To where the boldest foeman stood. 

His look, though soft, was calm and high ; 

His face was gazing on the sky, 

As if he said, " Man cannot die, 
Though all below be done." 

Thus was it that we saw him lie, 
Beneath the Kussian gun.' 

Right up the hill our columns sped, 
No hurrying in their earnest tread ; 
The iron thunder broke in storms, 

Again, and yet again 
On their firm ranks, and stately forms 

It did but break in vain ; 
Though all untrained by war to bear 

The battle's deadly brunt, 
The ancient heart of Wales was there, 

Still rushing to the front. 
Their blood flowed fast along those steeps, 

But the proud goal was won, 
And the moon shone on silent heaps, 

Beyond the Russian gun. 
For there, with friends he loved around him, 
Among the foremost dead they found him. 

Oh, there are bitter tears for thee, 
Young sleeper by the Eastern sea, 
Grief that thy glory cannot tame ; 
It will not cease to ache, 


And anguish beyond any name, 

In hearts that fain would break : 
Still, thy brave bearing on that day 
Sends to those mourners strength to say, 

Thy will, God, be done. 
We bow before Thy living throne, 
And thank Thee for the mercy shown, 
Even when Thy summons dread was thrown 
Forth from the Russian gun.' 

No agony that gasps for breath 
Lengthened his hopeless hours of death, 
No quenchless longing woke in vain 
For those he ne'er could see again. 
By noble thoughts and hopes befriended, 
By Honour to the last attended, 
His haughty step the hill ascended ; 
At once his hand and brain reposed, 
At once his dauntless life was closed ; 
One mystic whirl of mighty change 
One sea-like rush of blackness strange 
And all the roaring tumult dim 
Was cold, and dark, and still, for him, 
Pain cannot rack, or fever parch, 

Now that his course is run, 
And ended that majestic inarch 

Up to the Russian gun ; 
For there, with friends he loved around him, 
Serene as sleep they sought and found him. 

And still for ever fresh and young, 
His honoured memory shall shine, 

A light that never sets, among 
The trophies of his ancient line. 


Yea, though the sword may seem to kill, 
Each noble name is living still, 

A ray of Glory's sun. 
And many a child, remembering well 
How by sad Alma's stream he fell, 
His tale with boyish pride shall tell, 

* I bear the name of one 
Who, in that first great fight of ours 
Against the tyrant's servile powers, 
Upon the red Crimean sod 
Went down for liberty and God, 

Close to the Russian gun ; 
" For there, with friends he loved around him, 
Among the free-born dead they found him." : 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 




AT least, it was a life of swords, 

Our life ! nor lived in vain : 
We fought the fight with mighty lords, 

Nor dastards have we slain. 

We stirred at. morn, and through bright air 

Swept to the trysting place : 
Winds of the mountains in our hair, 

And sunrise on each face. 

No need to spur ! our horses knew 

The joy, to which we went : 
Over the brightening lands they flew 

Forward, and were content. 

On each man's lips, a happy smile ; 

In each man's eyes, delight : 
So, fired with foretaste, mile on mile, 

We thundered to the fight. 

Let death come now, and from the sun 

Hide me away : what then 1 
My days have seen more prowess done, 

Than years of other men. 

Oh, warriors of the rugged heights, 

We, where the eagles nest : 
They, courtly soldiers, gentle knights, 

By kings and dames caressed. 


Not theirs, the passion of the sword, 

The fire of living blades ! 
Like men, they fought : and found reward 

In dance and feast, like maids. 

We, on the mountain lawns encamped, 

Close under the great stars, 
Turned, when the horses hard by stamped, 

And dreamed again, of wars : 

Or, if one woke, he saw the gleam 

Of moonlight, on each face, 
Touch its tumultuary dreain 

With moments of mild grace. 

We hated no man ; but we fought 
With all men : the fierce wind 

Lashes the wide earth without thought ; 
Our tempest scourged mankind. 

They cursed us, living without laws ! 

They, in their pride of peace : 
Who bared no blade, but in just cause ; 

Nor grieved, that war should cease. 

spirit of the wild hill-side ! 

spirit of the steel ! 
We answered nothing, when they cried, 

But challenged with a peal. 

And, when the battle blood had poured 

To slake our souls' desire : 
Oh, brave to hear, how torrents roared 

Beside the pinewood fire ! 


My brothers, whom in warrior wise 

The death of deaths hath stilled ! 
Ah, you would understand these eyes, 

Although with strange tears filled ! 

Lionel Johnson. 



YES, tliev return but who return ? 


The many or the few ? 
Clothed with a name, in vain the same. 
Face after face is new. 

We know how beat the drum to muster, 

We heard the cheers of late, 
As that red storm, in haste to form, 

Burst through each barrack gate. 

The first proud mass of English manhood. 

A very sea of life, 
With strength untold, was eastward rolled, 

How ebbs it back from strife ? 

The steps that scaled the Heights of Alma 

Wake but faint echoes here ; 
The flags we sent come back, though rent, 

For other hands to rear. 

Through shouts, that hail the shattered banner, 

Home from proud onsets led, 
Through the glad roar, which greets once more 

Each bronzed and bearded head ; 

Hushed voices, from the earth beneath us, 

Thrill on the summer air, 
And claim a part of England's heart 

For those who are not there. 


Not only these have marched to battle 

Into the realms of peace 
A home attained a haven gained, 

Where wars and tumults cease. 

Whilst thick on Alma's blood-stained river 

The war-smoke lingered still, 
A long, low beat of unseen feet 

Rose from her shrouded hill. 

By a swift change, to music, nobler 

Than e'er was heard by man, 
From those red banks, the gathered ranks 

That other march began. 

On, on, through wild and wondrous regions, 

Echoed their iron tread, 
Whilst voices old before them rolled 

1 Make way for Alma's dead.' 

Like mighty winds before them ever, 

Those ancient voices rolled ; 
Swept from their track, huge bars run back, 

And giant gates unfold ; 

Till, to the inmost home of heroes 

They led that hero line, 
Where with a flame no years can tame 

The stars of honour shine. 

As forward stepped each fearless soldier, 

So stately, firm, and tall, 
Wide, wide outflung, grim plaudits rung 

On through that endless hall. 


Next, upon gloomy phantom chargers, 

The self -devoted came, 
Who rushed to die, without reply, 

For duty, not for fame. 

Then, from their place of ancient glory, 
All sheathed in shining brass, 

Three hundred men, of the Grecian glen, 
Marched down to see them pass. 

And the long-silent flutes of Sparta 
Poured haughty welcome forth, 

Stern hymns to crown, with just renown, 
Her brethren of the North. 

Yet louder at the solemn portal, 
The trumpet floats and waits ; 

And still more wide, in living pride, 
Fly back the golden gates. 

And those from Inkerm,an swarm onwards, 

Who made the dark fight good- 
One man to nine, till their thin line 
Lay, where at first it stood. 

But though cheered high by mailed millions 
Their steps were faint and slow, 

In each proud face the eye might trace 
A sign of coming woe. 

A coming woe which deepened ever, 
As down that darkening road, 

Our bravest, tossed to plague and frost, 
In streams of ruin flowed. 


All through that dim despairing winter, 

Too noble to complain, 
Bands hunger- worn, in raiment torn, 

Came, not by foemen slain. 

And patient, from the sullen trenches 

Crowds sunk by toil and cold 
Then murmurs slow, like thunders low, 

Wailed through the brave of old. 

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes, 

Anguish, and shame, and scorn, 
As clouds that drift, breathe darkness swift 

O'er seas of shining corn. 

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes, 

And veiled it like a pall, 
Whilst all felt fear, lest they should hear 

The Lion-banner fall. 

And if unstained that ancient banner 

Keep yet its place of pride, 
Let none forget how vast the debt 

We owe to those who died. 

Let none forget The Others, marching 

With steps we feel no more, 
Whose bodies sleep, by that grim deep 

Which shakes the Euxine shore. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



SONS of the Island race, wherever ye dwell, 

Who speak of your fathers 5 battles with lips that 

The deed of an alien legion hear me tell, 

And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to 

When succour shall fail and the tide for a season 


To fight with a joyful courage, a passionate pride, 
To die at last as the Guides at Cabul died. 

For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, 

Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, 
Answered a thousand yelling for English blood 

With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from 

And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan 

Till the walls were shattered wherein they crouched at 

And dead or dying half of the seventy lay. 

Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their 


Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, 
Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, 


Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, 
Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track. 
' Never give in ! ' he cried, and he heard them shout, 
And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt. 

And the Guides looked down from their smouldering 

barrack again, 
And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that 

spoke : 

' Come, for we know that the English all are slain, 
We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk ; 
Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yoke.' 
Silence fell for a moment, then was heard 
A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word. 

' Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this 

That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade 

us fight ? 

We that live do ye doubt that our hands are strong ? 
They that are fallen ye know that their blood was 

bright ! 

Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light 
The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred, 
Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead ? ' 

Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart 
To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap 

Came on the men of the Guides : they flung apart 
The doors not all their valour could longer keep ; 
They dressed their slender line ; they breathed deep, 

And with never a foot lagging or head bent, 

To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went. 

Henry Newbolt. 



IT is not to be thought of that the flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flow'd, l with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands 

Should perish ; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old ; 

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 

William Wordsworth. 




MILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
raise us up, return to us again, 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power ! 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth. 





His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd ; 

Time too swift, swiftness never ceasing ! 
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd, 

But spurn'd in vain ; youth waneth by increasing : 
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen ; 
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees ; 

And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms, 
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, 

And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms : 
But though from court to cottage he depart 
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, 

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, 

' Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, 
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.' 

Goddess, allow this aged man his right 

To be your beadsman now that was your knight. 

George Peele. 



HOVE to off Puerto Bello the Queen's Defiance lay, 
The sun went down to Darien and crimsoned all the 

Yet once more Dame Adventure, the witch that knows 

no ruth, 
Hath smiled from out the sunset world the siren smile 

of youth. 

But the merry main was silent now, no more in care- 
less ease 

The treasure transports plied unscarred through those 
enchanted seas, 

And fleets of war sailed to and fro between the island 

The peaceful cities of the west were grim with battled 

forts ; 

For many a year had coine and gone since Drake's 

unconquered hand, 
The magic of his name had changed the face of all 

that land. 

Of five that sailed from Plymouth shall one see home 

For storm and death and sickness have fought the 

fight for Spain. 


The dauntless eyes had lost their mirth, the stricken 

ranks grew less, 
But till the end he hugged his dream and scoffed at 


Defeat nor failure had not taught that stubborn will 

to break, 
But life-long toil and fever breath wore out the heart 

of Drake. 

So, grave and heavy-hearted, they watched the setting 

His crews that leave untenanted the isles that he had 


The skies were red and angry, the heaving waves were 

And in his leaden coffin lay the great sea-captain dead. 

Old friends stood ringed about him, and every head 

was bowed, 
St. George's red-cross banner lay over him for shroud. 

The cradle of his childhood's dream rocked on an 

English wave, 
Here billows no more alien shall guard an English grave. 

He ploughed the longest furrow that ever split the foam, 
From sunset round to sunrise he brought the good 
ship home. 

His soul was wide as ocean, unfettered as the breeze, 
He left us for inheritance the freedom of the seas. 

The death-guns echoed landward, the last brief prayer 

was said, 
4 'Neath some great wave ' they left him there, till the 

sea gives up her dead. 

Sir Eennell Rodd. 



SIR DRAKE, whom well the world's end knew, 

Which thou did compasse round, 
And whom both poles of heaven once saw, 

Which north and south do bound. 

The starres above would make thee known, 

If men here silent were ; 
The sun himselfe cannot forget 

His fellow-traveller. 





TOLL for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side ; 

A land breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went The Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea fight is fought ; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock : 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down, 

With twice four hundred men. 


Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again. 
Full-charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone ; 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

William Cowper. 




NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lanthorn dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 


But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



SOLDIER, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ! 
Dream of battled fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy streams of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
The fragments of an earlier world ; 
A wildering forest feathered o'er 
His ruined sides and summit hoar, 
While on the earth, through middle air, 
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 

From the steep promontory gazed 
The stranger, raptured and amazed, 
And 'What a scene were here/ he cried, 
' For princely pomp or churchman's pride ! 
On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; 
In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 
On yonder meadow, far away, 
The turrets of a cloister grey ; 


How blithely might the bugle-horn 

Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! 

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute, 

Chime, when the groves are still and mute ! 

And, when the midnight moon should lave 

Her forehead in the silver wave, 

How solemn on the ear would come 

The holy matins' distant hum, 

While the deep peal's commanding tone 

Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 

A sainted hermit from his cell, 

To drop a bead with every knell 

And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, 

Should each bewildered stranger call 

To friendly feast and lighted hall.' 

Sir Walter Scott. 



CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought 

is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring ; 

But heart ! heart ! heart ! 
the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the 

shores a- crowding, 

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck, 
You're fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor 


The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed 

and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 
won : 

Exult, shores, and ring, bells ! 
But I with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there ! 

William Collins. 



WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh ! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine ; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. 
Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 

Thomas Moore. 



THE day's high work is over and done, 

And these no more will need the sun : 

Blow, you bugles of England, blow ! 

These are gone whither all must go, 

Mightily gone from the field they won. 

So in the workaday wear of battle, 

Touched to glory with God's own red, 

Bear we our chosen to their bed ! 

Settle them lovingly where they fell, 

In that good lap they loved so well ; 

And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said, 

And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped, 

Blow, you bugles of England, blow, 

Over the camps of her beaten foe 

Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother, 

Sad, sad in her sacrificial dead ! 

Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth, 

They gave their part in this kindly earth 

Blow, you bugles of England, blow ! 

That her Name as a sun among stars might glow, 

Till the dusk of time, with honour and worth 

That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle, 

The One Race ever might starkly spread, 

And the One Flag eagle it overhead ! 

In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride, 

Thus they felt it, and thus they died ; 


So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread, 

For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed % 

Blow, you bugles of England, blow, 

Though you break the heart of her beaten foe, 

Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother, 

Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead ! 

William Ernest Henley. 



To mute and to material things 

New life revolving summer brings ; 

The genial call dead Nature hears, 

And in her glory reappears. 

But oh, my Country's wintry state 

What second spring shall renovate ? 

What powerful call shall bid arise 

The buried warlike and the wise ; 

The mind that thought for Britain's weal, 

The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ? 

The vernal sun new life bestows 

Even on the meanest flower that blows ; 

But vainly, vainly may he shine 

Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine ; 

And vainly pierced the solemn gloom 

That shrouds, PITT, thy hallow'd tomb ! 

Deep graved in every British heart, 
O never let those names depart ! 
Say to your sons, Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ! 
To him, as to the burning levin, 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 


Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd and was no more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, 
Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
And launched that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ; 
Who, born to guide such high emprise, 
For Britain's weal w r as early wise ; 
Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave, 
For Britain's sins an early grave ! 
--His worth, who in his mightiest hour 
A bauble held the pride of power, 
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, 
And served his Albion for herself ; 
Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, 
The pride he would not crush, restrain'd, 
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws. 

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, 

A watchman on the lonely tower, 

Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 

When fraud or danger were at hand ; 

By thee, as by the beacon-light, 

Our pilots had kept course aright ; 

As some proud column, though alone, 

Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. 

Now is the stately column broke, 

The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, 

The trumpet's silver voice is still, 

The warder silent on the hill ! 


think, how to his latest day, 

When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, 

With Palinure's unalter'd mood 

Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; 

Each call for needful rest repell'd, 

With dying hand the rudder held, 

Till in his fall with fateful sway 

The steerage of the realm gave way. 

Then while on Britain's thousand plains 

One unpolluted church remains, 

Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 

The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 

But still upon the hallow'd day 

Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 

While faith and civil peace are dear, 

Grace this cold marble with a tear : 

He who preserved them, PITT, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, 
Because his rival slumbers nigh ; 
Nor be thy Requiescat dumb 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
When best employ'd, and wanted most ; 
Mourn genius high, and lore profound, 
And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
And all the reasoning powers divine 
To penetrate, resolve, combine ; 
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave, 
Be every harsher thought suppress'd, 
And sacred be the last long rest. 


Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ; 
Here, where the fretted vaults prolong 
The distant notes of holy song, 
As if some angel spoke agen, 
' All peace on earth, good-will to men ' ; 
If ever from an English heart, 
0, here let prejudice depart, 
And, partial feeling cast aside, 
Record that Fox a Briton died ! 
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave 
Was barter'd by a timorous slave 
Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, 
The sullied olive-branch return'd, 
Stood for his country's glory fast, 
And nail'd her colours to the mast ! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honoured grave ; 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 

With more than mortal powers endow'd, 
How high they soar'd above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
Like fabled gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Look'd up the noblest of the land, 



Till through the British world were known 

The names of PITT and Fox alone. 

Spells of such force no wizard grave 

E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 

Though his could drain the ocean dry, 

And force the planets from the sky. 

These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 

The wine of life is on the lees. 

Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 

For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, 

Where taming thought to human pride ! 

The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 

Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 

'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ; 

O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, 

And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 

The solemn echo seems to cry, 

' Here let their discord with them die. 

Speak not for those a separate doom 

Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb ; 

But search the land of living men, 

Where wilt thou find their like agen ? ' 

Sir Walter Scott. 



NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west 

died away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz 

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar 

In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar 

grand and gray ; 
( Here and here did England help me : how can I help 

England?' say, 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 

and pray, 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 

Robert Browning. 



SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm 

Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more 

We ride into still water and the calm 

Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore 

Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, 

Our exile is accomplished. Once again 

We look on Europe, mistress as of yore 

Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. 

Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules 
And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door 
England stands sentry. God ! to hear the shrill 
Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, 
And at the summons of the rock gun's roar 
To see her red coats marching from the hill ! 

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. 



WHAT have I done for you, 

England, my England ? 
What is there I would riot do, 

England, my own ? 
With your glorious eyes austere, 
As the Lord were walking near, 
Whispering terrible things and dear 

As the Song on your bugles blown, 

Round the world on your bugles blown ! 

Where shall the watchful sun, 

England, my England, 
Match the master- work you've done, 

England, my own 1 
When shall he rejoice agen 
Such a breed of mighty men 
As come forward, one to ten, 

To the Song on your bugles blown, 

Down the years on your bugles blown ? 

Ever the faith endures, 

England, my England : 
' Take and break us : we are yours, 

England, my own ! 
Life is good, and joy runs high 
Between English earth and sky : 


Death is death ; but we shall die 
To the Song on your bugles blown, 

To the stars on your bugles blown ! ' 

They call you proud and hard, 

England, my England : 
You with worlds to watch and ward, 

England, my own ! 

You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys 
Of such teeming destinies, 
You could know nor dread nor ease 

Were the Song on your bugles blown, 

Round the Pit on your bugles blown ! 

Mother of Ships whose might, 

England, my England, 
Is the fierce old Sea's delight, 

England, my own, 
Chosen daughter of the Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, 
There's the menace of the Word 

In the Song on your bugles blown, 

Out of heaven on your bugles blown ! 

William Ernest Henley. 



GREEN fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare. 
Your image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast 
If but in thee my lot lie cast, 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Arthur Hugh Glough. 




WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, 
And her young artless words began to flow, 

One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere 
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, 

By tint and outline, all its sea and land. 

She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd 

Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, 
And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss ; 

But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye 

On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry 

' Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! ' 
And while she hid all England with a kiss, 

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 

Charles Tennyson Turner. 



MANY a year have my sons gone forth ; 

Their bones are bleaching in field and flood ; 
They have carried my name from the ancient North, 

They have borne it high through water and Wood. 

While the mariner's strength, and his ship, might last 
Steering straight for the Orient lands ; 

Nor sweeping billow nor tearing blast 

Could wrench the helm from his straining hands ; 

And the onward march of my soldiers' line, 
Where was it broken by sword or sun ? 

The toil was theirs, and the prize was mine 
Thus was an empire lost and won. 

Now my frontiers march on the Himalay snow, 
And my landmarks stand on its loftiest crest ; 

Where the winds blow soft on the pines below, 
There shall my legions halt and rest ; 

And the men of the cities in all the plain 
From the silent hills to the sounding sea, 

And a thousand tribes in the vast champaign, 
They follow no leader or lord but me. 

Sir Alfred Lyall. 



SHE stands a thousand-wintered tree, 

By countless morns impearled ; 
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, 

Her branches sweep the world ; 
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, 

Clothe the remotest strand 
With forests from her scatterings made 
New nations fostered in her shade, 

And linking land with land. 

ye by wandering tempest sown 

'Neath every alien star, 
Forget not whence your breath was blown 

That wafted you afar ! 
For ye are still her ancient seed 

On younger soil let fall 
Children of Britain's island -breed, 
To whom the Mother in her need 

Perchance may one day call. 

William Watson. 



GOD save our gracious King, 
Long live our noble King, 

God save the King. 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 

God save the King. 

Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter his enemies, 

And make them fall ! 
Confound their politics, 
Frustrate their knavish tricks ; 
On Thee our hopes we fix 

God save us all. 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour, 

Long may he reign ! 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing, with heart and voice, 

God save the King ! 

Henry Carey. 



OH, Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! 
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, 
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine 
With joy not unallied to thine, 
Transports not chargeable with art 
Illume the land's remotest part, 
And strangers to the air of courts 
Both in their toils and at their sports, 
The happiness of answered prayers, 
That gilds thy features, show in theirs. 

If they who on thy state attend, 
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 
J Tis but the natural effect 
Of grandeur that ensures respect ; 
But she is something more than Queen 
Who is beloved where never seen. 

William Cowper. 



ENGLAND ! awake ! awake ! awake ! 

Jerusalem thy sister calls ! 
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, 

And close her from thy ancient walls ? 

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 

Gently upon their bosoms move : 
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways ; 

Then was a time of joy and love. 

And now the time returns again ; 

Our souls exult, and London's towers 
Receive the Lamb of God to dwell 

In England's green and pleasant bowers. 

William Blake. 



22 JUNE, 1897 

GOD of our fathers, known of old 
Lord of our far-flung battle-line 

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies 
The captains and the kings depart 

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

Far-call'd our navies melt away 

On dune and headland sinks the fire 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use 

Or lesser breeds without the Law 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 


For heathen heart that puts her trust 

In reeking tube and iron shard 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 

Rudyard Kipling. 



Agincourt, Agincourt ! 58 

Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in 

Attend you, and give ear awhile 

God prosper long our noble king 

It was a' for our rightfu' king . 

Listen to me, as when ye heard our fathers 

Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us 

Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone 

Old England to thyself be true . 

Sir Drake, whom well the world's end knew . 

Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules 

Some years of late, in eighty-eight 

The fifteenth day of July 







The Rhine is running deep and red .... 114 

BLAKE, WILLIAM (1757-1827) 

And did those feet in ancient time '. . . .2 

England ! awake ! awake ! awake ! 237 

O sons of Trojan Brutus clothed in war . . .13 


Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm . . 228 


When slow and faint from off the plain . . . 182 

BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-1889) 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King . . . .87 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? . . .89 

Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away 227 

BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796) 

Scots wha hae wi 1 Wallace bled . . . . .37 


There was a sound of revelry by night . . . 169 

R 241 



I love contemplating, apart ..... 166 
Men of England ! who inherit . . . . .21 

Of Nelson and the North . . . . .152 

Our bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lowered . 175 
Ye Mariners of England . . . . . .18 

CAREY, HENRY (1693?-! 743) 

God save our gracious king ..... 235 

CLOUOH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-1861) 

Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er .... 231 

COLLINS, WILLIAM (1721-1759) 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest . . . 218 

CORY, WILLIAM (1823-1892) 

We come in arms, we stand ten score . . . .35 

When George the Third was reigning one hundred years ago 156 

COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800) 

Iberia, trembling from afar . . . . .174 

Oh, Queen of Albion, queen of isles .... 236 

Toll for the brave . . . . . .210 

When the British warrior queen .... 9 

DAVIS, THOMAS (1814-1845) 

When all around their vigil keep .... 109 


King Philip had vaunted his claims . . . .79 


To all you ladies now on land ..... 135 


Eleven men of England ...... 145 

' For victory,' no, all hope is gone ; for life ! let that go too 178 
Last night among his fellow roughs . . . .123 

Thin glancing threads of English horse . . . 188 

When from grim Alma's bloodstain'd height . . . 191 

Yes, they return but who return ? 198 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL (1563-1631) 

Fair stood the wind for France . . . . .53 

You brave heroic minds ...... 101 

ELLIOT, EBENEZER (1781-1849) 

Day like our souls is fiercely dark . . . .31 

GARRICK, DAVID (1717-1779) 

Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer . . 84 



Ye buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths, now play your 
parts ........ 16 


A good sword and a trusty hand .... 138 


Sons of Shannon, Tamar, Trent . . . .22 

The day's high work is over, and done .... 220 
What have I done for you ..... 229 

HERRICK, ROBERT (1591-1674) 

Store of courage to me grant . . . . .27 

HOARE, PRINCE (1755-1834) 

Come all ye jolly sailors bold . . . . .131 

JOHNSON, LIONEL (1867-1903) 

At least, it was a life of swords . . . .1 


God of our fathers, known of old . . . .2 


Many a year have my sons gone forth .... 233 


Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise . 74 
The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling . . 162 

To my true king I otter'd free from stain . . .97 


O my dark Rosaleen ...... 106 


The captain stood on the carronade : 'First lieutenant,' 
says he ........ 133 

MARVELL, ANDREW (1621-1678) 

See how the flowers, as at parade 

The forward youth that would appear . 

Where the remote Bermudas ride . .99 

MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674) 

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms . . .90 


Great, good, and just ! could I but rate . . .96 


MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852) PAGE 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone . . . .24 

When he who adores thee has left but the name . . 219 

MOTHERWELL, WlLLIAM (1797-1835) 

A steed ! a steed of matchlesse speed . . . .28 


Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake . . . .150 

In seventeen hundred and fifty -nine . . . .154 

It was eight bells ringing ..... 160 

Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell . . . 202 

PARKER, MARTYN (d. 1656 ?) 

Ye gentlemen of England ..... 149 

PEELE, GEORGE (155S?-1597?) 

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd . . .206 


Hove to off Puerto Bello the Queen's Defiance lay . . 207 


In grappled ships around the Victory .... 164 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832) 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 1 

Next morn the Baron climbed the tower 

Pibroch of Donuil Dim . 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er . 

To horse ! To horse ! the standard flies 

To mute and to material things 





O for a muse of fire, that would ascend . . .48 

This royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle . . 7 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843) 

It was a summer evening . . . . .111 

SPENSER, EDMUND (1553-1598) 

Revele to me the sacred noursery .... 142 

STILL, JOHN (1543?-1608) 

From mercilesse invaders . . . . .71 


Then there rise upon my view ..... 172 



Half a league, half a league ..... 185 
Love thou thy land with love far-brought 

THOMSOK, JAMES (1700-1748) 

When Britain first at Heaven's command . . .11 


When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year . . 232 

VERB, AUBREY DE (1814-1902) 

Bright and majestic spirit ! faithful mate . . . 144 


She stands a thousand-wintered tree .... 234 

WHITMAN, WALT (1819-1892) 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! . . . 176 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done . . 216 

WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823) 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . . . 212 


It is not to be thought of that the flood . . 204 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour . . 205 

Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent . . . 165 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed . 110 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he . . 139 



A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! . . . . 138 

A steed ! a steed of matchlesse speed . . . .28 

Agincourt, Agincourt ! . . . . . .58 

And did those feet in ancient time . . . . .2 

Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in . . .33 

At least, it was a life of swords ..... 195 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise . 74 

Attend you, and give ear awhile ..... 127 

BEAT ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 176 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 1 

Bright and majestic Spirit ! faithful mate .... 144 

CAPTAIN or Colonel, or Knight in Arms . . . .90 

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold ..... 131 

Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer . . .84 

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark . . . . .31 

EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake . . . .150 

Eleven men of England ...... 145 

England ! awake ! awake ! awake ! . . . . . 237 

FAIR stood the wind for France . . . . .53 

For victory ! no, all hope is gone ; for life ! let that go too . 178 

From mercilesse invaders ... .71 

GOD of our fathers, known of old 
God prosper long our noble king 
God save our gracious King . 
Great, good, and just ; could I but rate 
Green fields of England ! Avheresoe'er 




HALF a league, half a league . . . . . .185 

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd . . 206 

Hove to off Puerto Bello the Queen's Defiance lay . . . 207 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest .... 218 

I LOVE contemplating, apart .... . 166 

Iberia, trembling from afar ...... 174 

In grappled ships around the Victory 

In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine ..... 154 



It is not to be thought of that the flood .... 204 

It was a" for our rightfu' King . . . . .85 

It was a summer evening . . . . . .111 

It was eight bells ringing ...... 160 

KENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King . . . .87 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? . . .89 

King Philip had vaunted his claims . . . . .79 

LAST night, among his fellow roughs .... 123 

Listen to me, as when ye heard our fathers . . . 104 

Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us . . 81 

Love thou thy land with love far-brought .... 3 

MANY a year have my sons gone forth .... 233 
Men of England ! who inherit . . . . .21 

Milton ! thou should st be living at this hour . . . 205 

NKXT morn the Baron climbed the tower . . . .64 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away . 227 
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note .... 212 

O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done . . . 216 

O for a muse of fire, that would ascend . . .48 

O, my dark Rpsaleen 

O Sons of Trojan Brutus clothed in war 

Of Nelson and the North 

Oh, Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! 

The fifteenth day of July 

The forward youth that would appear 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone . 

The Rhine is running deep and red . 

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling 


Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone? . . 23 

Old England to thyself be true . . . . .20 

Our bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lowered . . 175 

PIBROCH of Donuil Dim ...... 25 

REVELE to me the sacred noursery ..... 142 

SCOTS wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . . . .37 

See how the flowers, as at parade . . . . .98 

Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm . . 228 

She stands a thousand-wintered tree .... 234 

Sir Drake, whom well the world's end knew . . . 209 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er ..... 214 

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules . . . 125 

Some years of late, in eighty-eight . . . . .72 

Sons of Shannon, Tamar, Trent . . . . .22 

Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell . . . . 202 

Store of courage to me grant . . . . . .27 

THE captain stood on the carronade : ' First lieutenant,' says he. 133 
The day's high work is over and done . 220 




Then there rise upon my view ..... 172 

There was a sound of revelry by night . . ' . . 169 

Thin glancing threads of English horse .... 188 
This royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd isle . . .7 

To all you ladies now on land ..... 135 

To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies . . .29 

To mute and to material things ..... 222 
To my true king I offer'd free from stain . . . .97 

Toll for the brave ! ... .10 

VANGUARD of liberty, ye men of Kent ! . . .165 

WE come in arms, we stand ten score . . .35 

What have I done for you ...... 229 

When all around their vigil keep ..... 109 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command . . . .11 

When, from grim Alma's bloodstain'd height . . 191 

When George the Third was reigning a hundred years ago . 156 

When he who adores thee has left but the name . 219 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year 
When slow and faint from off the plain 
When the British warrior queen 
Where the remote Bermudas ride 
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 







YE buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths, now play your parts 16 
Ye gentlemen of England . . . . . . 149 

Ye Mariners of England . . . . . .18 

Yes, they return but who return ? . . 198 

You brave heroic minds . 101 




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